


Once Bitten

by neichan



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe, Angst, First Time, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-02
Updated: 2006-09-12
Packaged: 2019-02-05 16:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12798141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neichan/pseuds/neichan
Summary: Starsky and Hutch try to deal with two cases, one a rapist, the second a serial killer.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

Characters: Starsky and Hutch

 

 

1\. waking with unexpected evidence

 

David Michael Starsky woke in his own bed with the pleasant ache that meant he'd gotten lucky and had really good sex the night before. A lot of it. He stretched, a smile growing on his face, reveling in the almost bruised feel of his pelvis, bones, sinew and muscles protesting their heavy use. All right!

 

It had been a few weeks seen he'd had a good roll in the hay. Last week the stewardess...Carly? Carrie? Karyn....? He couldn't remember. She had been OK, but nothing like this. He hadn't felt drained and content. She hadn't wanted to do it more than once. He was used to a few times, taking good care of his partner, making sure she enjoyed it, but she hadn't been interested. He sighed, her loss, poor girl. Well, this time had been much better.

 

He let his arm fall carefully down over to the other side of the mattress. He couldn't quite remember who she'd been...but he hadn't felt this worked over and downright good in ages. In fact he wasn't as interested as usual in wake up sex...but that didn't mean he was too worn out to cuddle the morning after.... Nothing beat a warm, lazy morning holding a curvy beauty.... She was going to be one to keep around if he had any say in the matter....

 

His arm encountered nothing but empty sheets. He opened his hazy, dark blue eyes. There was no one else in bed with him. He was alone. The crumpled pillow and rumpled sheet were all that showed someone had been there. He grumbled to himself, but considered that, since he had to be at work in less than an hour, it wasn't an all bad thing. Tonight, after his shift, he'd call her. He was sure he'd gotten her number. He always did, before anything happened, just in case. One of the things he'd learn being a cop. Information early was the way to go. And always write it down.

 

He lay still for a few minutes, waiting for the memory of last night to return. Events, though, refused to be recalled. He had a hazy impression of a good time, laughter. That was it. Couldn't even remember the sex. He frowned at that. He must have really tied one on. He shrugged, still trying to get the memory to pop up.

 

He had a vague recollection of a blond woman, cute in an impish way, petite and curvy in all the right places. Name? Uhm...maybe Sherie, Cheryl, something like that. He grinned to himself. He remembered going to Huggy's with Hutch and Hutch's girlfriend Cathy. 'Course he always remembered what he did with Hutch, Hutch was important. Other details could wait. He'd remember eventually. He sighed. Well nothing to stop him from getting up and into the shower now. But he stayed flopped on top of the sheet for a few more minutes thinking.

 

He didn't usually drink so much. Didn't like forgetting things and besides it was dangerous. Especially out and around town. Too darn dangerous. He was a cop, he knew the trouble men and women could get into. But they had just broken a tough, months long case, and it was worthy of celebration. Still, he wouldn't do it again. Not take a chance like that again, what if he'd needed to protect Hutch or himself, or the girls, and been too drunk to do it? He shook his head reluctantly. There were plenty of enemies they'd made, individually as well as together in the time they'd worked in Bay City. It was stupid to take chances.

 

Starsky had begun to doubt they would get the men responsible in the case they'd just solved. They'd been too careful and clever, and lucky too, which was worse. Every where he and Hutch turned, nothing but dead ends. They dug at it, stubborn, both in their own way, called in favors, dogged their snitches, kept an ear to the ground. Nothing. Until, out of one of the dinky desert towns, came a rumor. And they pounced on it, tenaciously following it up, and discovered the thugs well hidden base of operations. For a drug ring. They had gone in with the Staties for the bust, more than happy to share the credit with the State Troopers for the case.

 

Shrugging he finally found the will to get up out of bed and winced. His back hurt. Like he'd stretched it far beyond his usual range. Huh. Well that was what happened when a thirty something year old like him took a nubile and active young thing to bed. It felt like he'd been wrestling, got twisted around wrong. She must have been real athletic. He grinned. Damn, he hoped Hutch would know who she was. He'd check the pockets of his blue jeans later. In case her number was there.

 

He turned on the shower tap, nice and hot to ease the aches, yawning widely, examining his reflection before he got in. The normal morning beard. Eyes a little puffier that most days. Dark curls, touched just a little with grey here and there, wildly disheveled. Pillow marks on the left side of his face. He grinned experimentally at his reflection. Yeah, still charming.

 

There! On his neck! A hickey. As a rule he didn't let his women mark him. He didn't like it, and it cramped his style. He'd have to wait to date anyone else until the marks healed. And further down, he had another, he touched it gingerly. Right over his nipple. Which was swollen, and tender. His gaze transferred to the other side of his chest. Same thing there. The woman had worked his nipples over, hard, bitten them, though the skin wasn't broken. That was unusual. He hardly got crazy over nipple play...unless he was playing with *her* nipples and she was liking it.

 

He looked further down. He examined his cock and balls. No marks down there. Just an ache. Sort of pleasant. No big deal. He went to the toilet and peed. Nice, clear, yellow piss. See, everything was normal. He was just...stiff. And he hoped he'd used a condom. Damn it was beyond stupid to get that drunk.

 

He checked the medicine cabinet. He was out of aspirin.

 

Terrific.


	2. Part 2

"Good morning." Hutch greeted him as he came into the precinct detectives' office. Handed him his coffee, two sugars, and 'lotsa milk'. More like hot ice cream than coffee Hutch was in the habit of teasing him. But it tasted good. He sipped it. Palmed a couple of aspirins from the communal bottle Hutch kept in his desk, swallowed them, chasing the bitter taste with the pale, sweet, not quite hot coffee.

 

"Yeah? An' who told you it was a good mornin'?" Starsky asked, or snapped really. Damn but his back was sore. It was no longer the pleasant ache it had been. Now it felt more like he'd been in a fight, and he'd gotten his ass kicked during it. The morning-after glow was fading fast. He frowned, impatient for the aspirin to work it's magic.

 

Hutch raised his brows at the curt, uncharacteristic response.

 

"Read this." Hutch tossed him a manila file. Starsky tried to find a comfortable position, putting his cup down. Couldn't.

 

Maybe it was a good thing he couldn't remember the lady, she had t' have been some bruiser. He didn't like how he was feeling the longer he was up and around.

 

He took another, almost savage bite of his candy bar, savoring the chocolate, peanuts and caramel. Not looking, he managed to grab up his partner's brimming cup of coffee, black, by mistake, managing to burn his lip. It sloshed, spilling on the desk when he thrust it away from him. Hutch only just managing to keep it from tipping over completely.

 

"Hey! That was hot." The dark haired man complained, gingerly touching his singed lip. Now his mouth hurt on top of everything else. And it tasted like all black coffee, like shit. Hutch's pale brows rose higher. Starsky was almost never in a bad mood. Hutch knew it was he, who was the one given to moodiness, not his exuberant, cheerful partner.

 

"Uh. It is ~coffee~, Starsk, it is supposed to be hot." Hutchinson explained gently, rubbing at the triangular scar on his right cheek, a new, nervous habit acquired about the same time as the scar. Wary of his partner's mood. "Not everyone can drink that sugary stuff you do." He added mildly.

 

The curly haired man grunted. His body was telling him he'd had some of the best sex in his life, and he couldn't remember who with. At the same time he ached. He was also being told by his protesting body men of his age, thirty three, weren't kids any longer, ten years ago...he never would have felt this knocked around.

 

It made him irritable to think about getting older. His body had revealed some unpleasant surprises. Surprises he wasn't sure how to handle. Just like he apparently couldn't handle a hard night of sex without aches and pains. And he couldn't remember who he'd had it with. But she must have had a real kinky streak. He squirmed again.

 

"You and me, Hutch, what'd we do last night?" Starsky ventured, chewing on the last of the candy bar. Hutch raised his head, looked at him with brilliant, blue eyes, lighter than his own cobalt ones. A gentle, indulgent smile crooked the expressive mouth.

 

"What? Drink too much beer to remember? That's not like you, Starsk. We went to Huggy's. Ate, drank. You talked to a bunch of blonds all night." Hutch told him, reading his portion of the file. "I left with Cathy, you were still talking, said you'd see me in the morning. Guess you got lucky, huh, partner?"

 

That seemed to interest Starsky, his head came up, the powdered sugar from his pilfered donut dotting his chin. "I did? Uh, Hutch...."

 

Maybe Hutch knew who he'd gone home with. Or could at least give him a description. He thought he might want to find her again. If he knew who she was, then he could if he wanted to, instead of not knowing...

 

Dobey came through the door from his office into the detectives room about then. Hutch was the one who nodded a greeting, while the majority of his attention stayed on his partner.

 

Starsky had refocused on the box of donuts on the table behind the tall, blond detective and, leaning back onto the two back legs of his chair, darted out a hand, and managed to snag a second one. A nice, big, powdered one, with a bit of red jelly ready to squish out. Hutch rolled his eyes.

 

"Starsky, Hutchinson, get off your tails. Get down to the hospital. They have a case for you." Dobey snapped, crossly.

 

He'd lost some weight, but he was never going to be skinny. Hutch was meeting him at the gym a few days a week to keep him on a program, for which Mrs. Dobey was eternally grateful.

 

Tokens of her gratitude showed up frequently in the form of various, delicious baked goods, cakes and muffins and pies so good not even Hutch could resist them. Starsky didn't even try to, diving in to each pie or cake or muffin with the zeal of true appreciation that he lavished on all deserts. Hutch grinned at the memory, bending his head so his easily irritated captain couldn't see it.

 

The workouts were improving Dobey's health, if not his disposition, he still bellowed like a rhino with a sore tooth.

 

"What's it about, Cap'n?" Starsky asked before shoving the last of his second purloined donut into his mouth, and chewing rapidly, chasing it with his sweetened coffee. Hutch handed him a napkin, and he swiped ineffectually at the snow-like sugar dotting his dark blue T shirt.

 

"Rape. Now get your tails in gear." The dark skinned man said shortly, then went back into his office, closing the door. It was almost a slam. It was Starsky's turn to raise his brows in his partner's direction.

 

"You got it, Cap'n." Starsky called, as the legs of his chair smacked down onto the cracked linoleum of the squad room. "Come on, Hutch, what're ya waiting for?" He shot out of the room, the collar of his favorite, leather jacket crushed in a strong fist.

 

Hutch trailed after him, rubbing at his scar.

 

Looked like they were going to take the Tomato today. Starsky was wound tight as a drum.


	3. Part 3

They both disliked the cool, pastel corridors, the faint squeak of crepe soled shoes as nurses passed by, the quiet anticipation of the hospital. The anticipation was of dread, of loss, of pain, suffering, memories. The faint whiff of hope could do nothing to counteract the other feeling, not for them.

 

The two of them had spent too much time here, in this ER, and upstairs, wounded, poisoned, sick, struggling to hang on to life under glaring lights, surrounded by frantic activity and after that, to recover in quiet, sterile rooms.

 

There had been times when they hadn't managed to hang on. Times when death had stolen one, then the other of them. Sure, it had tossed them both back, Starsky first after he'd been shot, and then not so many months later, Hutch, when an addict's knife had nicked the big artery in his leg. He'd bled to death. Been dead, with Starsky unable to breathe enough to let out the scream of denial that filled him.

 

But here they were. Still alive. Brought back. Still partners. And they both hated this place, for all the good it did, saving them and countless others. Hated the chill feeling that this was the place where it would end for them. Somehow, someday.

 

Starsky didn't expect to find a young man behind the curtain in the ER. In fact he almost turned back to the nurse's station and told them there had been a mistake. They were here to interview a rape victim, not a college kid who'd been mugged or beat up....

 

But Hutch started talking to the kid, and it became clear that this was their rape victim after all. Starsky felt his throat close down. No. He didn't want this skinny guy to be who they were looking for. Their rape victim.

 

He was a kid, young and nervous. His face had a blank, stark look, as if he'd just encountered something unbelievable. Not possible. Starsky sort of felt the same way. This was a first for him, too. He watched the youth wring his hands, the slender fingers white with the pressure and restless, unable to hold still, twining around over and over, never still.

 

They'd worked the streets for years, Hutch and him, but they had managed to avoid getting a case where a rape victim was male. It didn't happen as often as with women, but it did happen. It had just been a matter of time, Starsky knew it happened, he knew men got raped. It happened plenty in prison. He just didn't like to think about it.

 

This one didn't look like a fruit, either. Skinny, yeah, but not light in the loafers, not loudly dressed, not defiantly advertising his difference to the world daring it to take offense, not given to dramatic gestures, or simpering looks. The short silky wisps of hair, disheveled stood out around that white, shocked face, almost like a little kid. Like five year old Mikey Epstein from the old neighborhood after his brand new bike was stolen. His mother had taken in laundry and ironing for six months to afford that bike. Six year old Davey Starsky had shared his hard candy with his long ago friend while they sat on the dirty curb recalling the glories of the one week Mikey had had his bike.

 

Most male victims were raped by someone they went out on a date with. They were much less likely to be raped by a wandering predator out looking for a victim. Those kind of men tended to find women preferred targets.

 

It just got weirder. The kid, he said his name was Charles Van Deen. He went by Chuck. He was twenty-two years old, dated women exclusively, and was an economics major at the university. He didn't have a steady girl, but he was looking. Seeing the confused and watery smile, Starsky felt bad for him.

 

Hutch did most of the talking, his deep, strong tone calm. Starsky just throwing in a question or two to clarify things when they occurred to him. When he could control his voice enough so his upset didn't show. The kid had enough to worry about without picking up on the jumbled feelings Starsky felt running through him.

 

Hutch gave him his card, and they left him sitting there, alone, skinny knees showing bare below the hem of the blue and white gown. Starsky wondered if he'd brought anyone with him. If he'd told anyone else. Asked for help dealing with it. Or if the only one the boy had was the silent, fierce nurse who hovered around the curtained cubicle, her manner as protective as a lioness with a cub. But still, just a stranger.

 

Then the detectives talked to the young, harried Intern who had collected the evidence. He turned the envelopes and bags over to them with relief after pulling them from the locked cabinet, preserving the chain of custody. The doctor, Starsky decided, was homosexual. Unlike the man who had been raped. He wondered what it was like for the doctor to do a rape exam on another man. A gay doctor. Was it any different?

 

Later, when they were back in the car, Hutch watched his uncharacteristically quiet partner, watched the agitation that rode just beneath the surface as Starsky pealed out of the hospital's parking lot.

 

"What's bugging you, Gordo?" Hutch asked as they sped down the relatively lightly trafficked road.

 

Starsky shook his head, but it wasn't in denial. His hands skittered over the steering wheel, unable to find a comfortable place to rest. Hutch noted that, it was the darker man's way of trying to telegraph to him the degree of his distress.

 

"Hey, just tell me what it is." Hutch suggested mildly. Anyone else...he would have insisted they pull over, stop driving until they'd worked it out. But Starsky would just build and build if he didn't have something else to do, and he was a much better driver than most, for all his love of speed and wild maneuvers. Hutch made a snap decision that Starsky could handle it, driving while he pried whatever it was bouncing around in his partners brain, and excised it.

 

He lay his hand on Starsky's forearm, fingers moving in a soothing rhythm. Letting the other man know he was here. Knowing he had to wait until the other man was ready to talk. He'd get nothing until Starsk worked out how to say it in his own head. After that, there would be no stopping the flood of words from the former New York native.

 

His hand moved absently on the other man's arm as they headed out of the downtown area. They were not going towards the precinct, the blond man noted. They were heading out towards the beach. That was a surprise. When he was dealing with things his partner liked to drive. For hours. It was Hutch who would walk on the beach, barefoot, sand wet between his toes, and hell to get out of his clothes later.

 

He didn't say anything though when Starsky pulled up at the hot dog stand near the boardwalk. He just trailed after the curly haired man who leapt out of the driver's seat and headed towards the order window like a man on a mission. He tried not to wince as he listened to the order for one dog with sauerkraut, chili, cheese, mustard, onion, relish....his stomach flopped, but he kept his mouth shut. Nodded when Starsky asked if he wanted anything to drink.

 

And he stood by patiently as Starsky thrust their Cokes into his hands, while he juggled the messy dog, heaped with a nauseating variety of tastes, dripping down his chin after the first bite. He stuffed a wad of napkins in his pocket and trailed after the munching man.

 

He waited until the gruesome meal had all but disappeared, then waited through the clean up with a half a dozen napkins that he'd handed over. They turned together and started to walk, drinking from their cokes, shoes tugged off and in their hands, socks stuffed into the toes. Their shoulders brushed from time to time. Normal, but Hutch had the distinct impression that Starsky wasn't even aware of the contact.

 

"He didn't deserve it, Blondie." Starsky said at last, gazing out over the sun-brilliant water.

 

"No one does." Hutch returned mildly.

 

"I'm not saying that. Not sayin' it at all. No one... but...women...they don't deserve it either that's not what I am saying here. But it doesn't come out of the blue. They have t' be careful, all their lives, Hutch, they've heard about it happenin' to friends, other girls. They might even know someone else who went through it. Bein' raped. Who does this kid have? None of his buddies are gonna know what he is going through." He crumpled the last napkin in his fist. "I mean, come on, blintz, when was the last time you were out on a date and had ta worry your date might take it farther than you liked?"

 

Hutch nodded, conceding his partner's point. "Never. Women also know how to support each other. They have had to learn. But it isn't easy for anyone."

 

"But havin' someone helps. Some one who knows what your goin' through. That's gotta help." Starsky insisted mournfully. "It's gotta help."

 

Tension was literally flying off of the other man, not the organized, directed kind they both felt preparing for a confrontation or a fight, not the kind that was useful. No, this kind tore at a man. Disoriented him. Hutch sidled a step nearer, flung a long arm over the shorter man's shoulders in a loose hug while they ambled down the beach.

 

"I am sure it does." Hutch acknowledged quietly. He looked up, away from that tight, worried face. Starsky always worried about the victims of the crimes they investigated. His heart was as big as the world, for all his streetwise ways. Starsky cared.

 

"We'll get the guy who did this." Hutch reassured Starsky.

 

Hutch was surprised to see how far they'd come during the conversation and the silent pauses between. Gently he turned them back towards the car. Taking their time they walked the track back, feet sinking deep into the white sand. The radio blared as they neared, calling for Zebra 3.

 

It was time to get back to work.


	4. Part 4

The crime scene was grisly. Decomposition was moderately advanced, but leaving plenty of meat on the body to smell up half the block. The body had been there at least a week. Definitely less than two. And stinking to high heaven.

 

Starsky held his jacket over his nose. "Jeez. How could anyone have missed this? We shoulda gotten a call a week ago!"

 

"They probably suffer from the usual urban disease, partner. They didn't want to be involved. Nobody lives within a block. Guess they could ignore it." Hutch said, "I think we aren't going to find much else here. Let's release the body to the medical examiner. See if she can find out anything more."

 

"How could anyone ignore it? I could smell it three blocks away." Starsky protested.

 

"Maybe they thought someone's sewer was backing up." Hutch turned away. "Lets get going. The doc will let us know if there is any reason for homicide to be involved."

 

The corpse had been found after a couple of dogs got into a fight over it. The dog's horrified owners, a Mr and Mrs Stanley from Houston, had called from a phone booth when they saw just what their animals had been barking over. Mr Stanley had vomited less than three feet away. His wife, a slim, petite figure with short, iron grey hair was made of sterner stuff. She had made the call, a former school teacher her call had been short and to the point. A dead body. Not fresh. She was outraged rather than nauseaous. Even so, she was just as unhappy with the discovery as her husband. This was not the kind of vacation they had planned on when coming ot sunny California. It was unlikely they were going to return. They also had nothing to offer in the way of relevant information.

 

The two detectives drove back to the precinct. Starsky fingering his candy bar, but his appetite hadn't returned. He felt like the smell of the body was lingering in his clothes and hair, upsetting his stomach. He slipped the half melted bar back into his jacket pocket and went to the water cooler. He brought a cup for Hutch when he came back to their desk, sipping his own. What he really wanted was a shower.

 

"What's this?" Hutch asked spotting the big envelope on the top of their in-box. "You expecting something? It's addressed to you." He held it out to his partner. Starsky finished the water, crumpling the cup and tossing it into the trash can for two points.

 

"Nah, nothing special. Prolly somethin' about one of the cases. Go ahead, open it." Starsky said, concentrating on the notes he'd taken at the hospital while listening to Hutch gently question the young man.

 

"That poor kid." He said, again. "That was a rotten thing to have happen."

 

The worst thing that could happen to a straight man. Aside from being murdered, he thought. Your masculinity violated. Your manhood called into question by everyone who found out. How could Van Deen tell anyone? They'd never look at him the same. it wasn't right, but Starsky knew that was what would happen. The kid would be tagged as gay, no matter how straight he was.

 

Hutch tore open the envelope and dumped it's contents onto the table. Then he looked up at his partner. This case was bugging his normally street-wise partner. The dark head was bent over his well thumbed notebook. Hutch could picture the hasty scrawl of his partner's illegible handwriting.

 

"Who? Van Deen?" Hutch questioned, his voice softening. The curly head nodded, the dark blue eyes meeting his. "It is rotten, Starsk. That someone can rape anyone, man or woman. It happens everyday. And it is never right."

 

"Yeah. Tough break for him. Comes out here 'cause he hears about nothin' but opportunity, great school, beaches, pretty co-eds. NO one tells him 'bout the lowlife sharks. He just wanted ta get a degree and work with the movers and shakers." David Starsky said, his voice low.

 

"He still can, babe. He swears he didn't take any chances. No drugs. His dad has enough money that he wouldn't need to turn tricks on the sly for pocket change. He is still a good kid from the sound of it. He can make it through. Succeed." Hutch reminded his partner. Just to cover all the bases they'd discreetly checked that. Mr Paul Van Deen was a banker, and his bank was doing well.

 

Then Hutch looked back down at the pile of Polaroids.

 

"Yeah but, that is just what he says, Blinz." Starsky sitting down, leaning way back, tilting his chair onto two legs. He picked up the cup of water Hutch hadn't finshed off. "I mean a kid away from home out from under mom and dad's thumb....maybe he did take a chance, an' just doesn't remember it. Maybe that's the piece we need ta solve this case."

 

Hutch picked up one of the photos that had tumbled out onto the desk, turning it over. He dropped it. His hair rose all over his body in a wave.

 

"Oh shit." He said quietly. Starsky looked over.

 

"What's it?" He said around a mouthful of water. Then he saw, and his eyes flying up to meet his partner's.

 

"The kid?" He asked, knowing he was right, he rose out of his chair, moving around to the other side of the desk. But Hutch didn't answer right away.

 

"Doesn't show much of his face. But this guy is softer around the middle. Older. Got a tattoo, looks old, a service tattoo, Navy maybe." Hutch was pushing the pictures around with the tip of a pencil, trying to see what they showed and still preserve any prints that might be on them.

 

Then out of the pile fell a smaller piece of evidence. A driver's license. The name on it was Stephen Miles. He was forty-eight years old. And if Starsky's instincts were right, he was looking at another rape victim, not a consensual partner. The subject of the pictures. A limp arm. Legs splayed. Not an active participant.

 

The other man, the active participant, was big and muscular, pictured from the back and the waist down only, he had no identifying marks. He was the rapist, holding the other man down while he mounted him. Starsky had no doubt of it all all. His only question was if there was a third person there, taking the pictures, or if the camera had been on a timer.

 

They tracked Miles down after showing up at his door and finding his wife. They couldn't tell her what was going on, but Hutch's golden charm seemed to soothe her, and she was smiling by the time they left to chase down Miles at his business.

 

The man was slim, about five foot nine, with dark hair and eyes. Thinning hair, but not going bald yet. He was quick to greet them at the door. Holding a hand out and shaking first one and then the other detective's hand. He was clearly at a loss to understand why they were there.

 

"What can I do for you, officers?" He asked, sounding truly puzzled. "My wife called, said you were on your way over. But she didn't know why."

 

"Can we talk in your office?" Hutch asked and the slighter man led the way. They closed the door before they sat down and took out one photo sealed in a plastic envelope.

 

Miles came close to fainting when they showed him the photo. He recognized himself right away. There was no mistaking his blanched face as he flipped the picture over to look at the back. The back was blank, no writing, no explanation.

 

"But I don't understand. I don't recall..." He dropped the picture. "I mean how....uh. When....?"

 

"This is you? This is your driver's license?"

 

"Yes, that is my tattoo. Got it when I was in the service, but... if this happened to me why wouldn't I remember it? I honestly don't." And both detectives believed him. They had learned to tell when a subject was telling a lie. Mr Miles was shocked. He'd been blindsided.

 

"People often forget traumatic events." Hutch said gently. Offering what little comfort he could. It wasn't much. Starsky felt like cringing.

 

"Things like this?" The man shook his head. "There is no way you can convince me that I would forget this, if it happened to me. I have never been with a man. I am happily married."

 

"We'd still like ta take ya down to the ER, have an examination done." Starsky said. Immediately the man shook his head. It was the last thing he wanted, to consider that this might have actually happened to him. That there might be signs that it had. Once there was proof, he wouldn't be able to deny it any longer.

 

In the end he agreed, clearly disturbed by the possibility he might be the one in the pictures. But surrendering after Hutch gently reminded him that his wife might be put at risk by any health problems, any diseases the rapist might have passed on to him.

 

Starsky, after comparing the naval tattoo on the man's forearm was convinced. Stephen Miles though still was skeptical. As if hoping it would turn out to be an elaborate, tasteless joke. But afraid enough of harming his wife to agree. They left for the hospital, Starsky driving, Hutch in the back seat next to the pale and silent victim. There didn't seem to be any thing else to say. The ride was completed in silence.


	5. Part 5

5\. Starsky tries to figure out what is going on.

 

The doctor came out from behind the drawn curtain, his face serious, grim. He approached the two detectives, and even before he spoke they knew they had another victim, without any remaining doubt.

 

"There is definite inflammation, irritation around the anus and inside the rectum. But as for it being rape," He shrugged, "there isn't any tearing, nothing to suture. He does have bruises on his back and his legs. I'd say he was held down, probably by a very powerful assailant, but he was lucky. Who ever did this was careful, and if you'll forgive me the odd phrasing, was gentle and relatively considerate of his health during penetration. I didn't find any semen, and I'd hazard a guess that the perpetrator used a prophylactic, a condom. I'll still run tests for sexually transmitted diseases, just to be safe."

 

He removed his gloves and tossed them into a lined waste can. "He is going to need psychological counseling, he is having a hard time believing he has been raped. He has no real pain. And there is some evidence the rapist used a numbing cream to further decrease any discomfort. Like the kind of creams used for hemorrhoidal complaints, only in a greater quantity and stronger. I found traces of it far up into his rectum."

 

"He say anythin' to you? Anythin' that might help us catch the guy, doc? He remember any of it while you were doing your exam?" Starsky asked, uncomfortable, but knowing they needed the information. He felt as if he was invading the man's privacy. Usually he wasn't so hypersensitive to how he and police in general had to force themselves into the deepest secrets of peoples lives. It was just something they had to do. Hutch, with the ease of their long partnership, sensed his discomfort, put a hand on his shoulder and took over the questioning.

 

"We have nothing to go on so far, doctor. No evidence, because we haven't found a crime scene. No fibers, no hair, no fluids. All we have is two men, both with the same physical findings, who don't remember anything. We'll take anything you can give us." The tall blond said, watching the older man's face. It softened into an expression of sympathy. But he had to shake his head.

 

"I am afraid I didn't find evidence beyond proof of anal intercourse. I couldn't even say it was forced, not without more injury. Still, speaking with Mr Miles, my best theory is that he was drugged first. And that the assault happened within the last two to three days. He did manage to convince me that he would not have consented to sexual intercourse with another man." The Doctor looked apologetic, but fatalistic. Without more evidence he knew as well as the detectives it wasn't going to be easy to tie a single perpetrator to the crimes. Or to convince the DA that there had been a crime to prosecute in the first place.

 

"Do you think he'll get his memory back?" Hutchinson asked, his hand rubbing the back of Starsky's neck. The dark haired man was tense, restless, as if he could hardly wait to get out of here. His whole body was tight, ready to explode into action. Being still was not what he needed right now. Hutch shook his shoulder a little, providing a small distraction for his hyperactive, hyper-focused partner.

 

The doctor frowned. "It is difficult to say. There are drugs that suppress recall. If he was dosed with one of those, it is quite likely he will remember nothing at all. That he will never get any memory back. If not, therapy might gradually bring back some recall. Total recall is rare. Unfortunately it may take years of intensive therapy to get those kinds of results. Frankly, most insurance companies won't cover it, and most patients aren't able to afford it."

 

The doctor turned over the evidence and left to see his waiting patients. And the two detectives were left with little else. Starsky wasted no time in heading outdoors, frantic not to spend another moment in the confines of the hospitals ER. Hutch waited for Mr Miles as the bewildered man dressed. They gave him a ride home, having convinced him he should take the rest of the afternoon off.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

Starsky felt his skin crawl.

 

"That is just weird, Hutch." He said when they'd reached the Torino after leaving Miles in the care of his wife.

 

Hutch didn't envy the man telling his bizarre tale to his wife. He hoped they had a solid foundation, a good relationship, and that she would believe him. Support him. Not wonder if he had gone willingly with a man who later raped him. She seemed a level headed woman, but you could never tell how someone would react to this kind of news.

 

"Raping someone like that, but making sure they don't get hurt. We've never run into that before." Starsky muttered. And he was right, they hadn't. Most rape victims were beaten up, sometimes a little hurt, sometimes a lot, or torn, or traumatized, easy to spot.

 

These men, both Miles and Van Deen, had bruises, but hadn't been beaten up. The doctors, both the attending physician who had just spoken to them, and the Intern they'd interviewed earlier, had noted that the bruises could very well have happened from being held down firmly. Not from being hit or beaten. And while Van Deen had had a niggling suspicion that something was wrong, enough to send the young man to the emergency room, Miles had had no idea. His shock was too real to be feigned.

 

"Hey! Hutchinson!" The voice caught them as they entered the crowded hallway of the precinct on the way to the detective's squad room. A short, burly dark skinned man was calling to them. "Medical Examiner is looking for you. Prelim is ready on your DB. And Dobey wants to see you, pronto."

 

Starsky waved a hand at the uniformed officer. "Thanks Robinson. We'll get on it." He wasn't happy about having another case. The rape case was too distracting. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a case that made so little sense to him. He was having a hard time concentrating on the DB case at the same time.

 

"So...Dobey first and then the morgue...or the morgue and then our fearless leader?" Starsky asked. "Wadda ya think he wants?"

 

"Morgue. Let's find out if we even have a case with the DB. It could be a natural death. Some homeless guy. If it is, then we have one less thing on our plates." Hutch said. "Definitely the morgue. Dobey wants to yell at us. About something. He always does. Can't get his day going without it."

 

Starsky laughed for the first time that day. He regarded Hutch fondly, clapping him on the back. "Yeah, yer right. Let's go partner."

 

They headed down the stairs.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

Dobey was in his usual form by the time they returned. The report from the medical examiner had taken less that twenty minutes. But Dobey was ready to explode.

 

"Starsky! Hutchinson! What part of "See Me Now" didn't you understand?" He roared at them. Losing weight had increased his wind and his voice by equal measure. The windows shook. Hutch half grinned. Dobey never changed.

 

"Sorry, cap'n," Starsky volunteered, too used to the roar to be intimidated.

 

"We just go back from the Morgue. The ME's report...."

 

"Homicide, Fractured hyoid from manual strangulation. I know. Well you've got another DB. Advanced decomp, just like the first. Found over on 5th and Industrial. Off the beaten track. Another unfortunate citizen walking his dog. Dog sniffed out the corpse. Pretty bad from what I hear. So get your tails over there and check it out." He lowered his voice to a growl.

 

"Right." They answered in unison, turning to go.

 

"Hold on. Leave the report. I want to read it." He held out one beefy hand. Starsky was startled to note, for the first time, that his partner was as big as Dobey. In fact more muscular, wide-shouldered, his belly flatter, but aside from the belly, Dobey wasn't any taller, or larger. Starsky stared. Damn. When had Hutch bulked up so much?

 

Hutch handed the folder to the big black man. Who snatched it from him.

 

Starsky let himself be herded out of the office. He stole another look at Hutch. Jeez! He could see the muscles bunching under the thin, button-down flannel shirt his partner wore. His pecs, his shoulders, damn, his biceps...when had that happened? He wondered about it. He was a detective, he was supposed to notice things. And he hadn't even noticed just how changed Hutch was.

 

"Hey, you alright, pal?" Hutch whispered as they headed down the hall and into the staircase."

 

Hell no. He wasn't. But he didn't say anything out loud. Something was niggling at the back of his mind. Something it was very important for him to figure out.

 

"I'm fine." Starsky grumbled. "Can't say 'm lookin' forward to another body like the last."

 

"Let's get it over with," Hutch said in a tone that agreed with the dark haired man. "I'm driving." The last thing he wanted was a distracted Starsky behind the wheel. He knew he'd made the right call when his partner didn't even try to make the usual disparaging comment or protest about Hutch's current heap-of-the- month.

 

And they left.


	6. Part 6

6\. Another Victim

 

 

Hutch had started working out when the police psychiatrist told him he had to find some way to get rid of the stress Starsky's near fatal shooting and protracted recovery had caused him. He was, according to her, going to have a bleeding ulcer in less than six months if he didn't. Hutch had always liked exercise, and anything else that was healthy.

 

Starsky shook his head and smiled fondly. His partner took care of himself physically, with exercise and eating healthy, but emotionally...it was a different story. Hutch had a habit of tearing himself in two over things he couldn't control or fix. It was up to Starsky to catch it when his partner got really bad. And to put a stop to it. Of course Hutch felt the same way about Starsky and his worries. Hutch brooded, Starsky fretted.

 

Hutch'd kept the weight training up to make the time go by as he waited for Starsky to finish his physical therapy sessions, sneaking in a workout in the gym a dozen feet away from where Starsky was getting pummeled by his physical therapist. That way he could keep an eye on how things were going. Hutch always knew, far better than the therapists when Starsky was at the end of his rope.

 

The big blond had found the routines soothing, he liked to sweat, to feel the blood pumping as he lifted and trained with the weights. It was very similar to meditation, just a physical appraoch instead of a mental one. He'd explained it to the curly haired man more than once.

 

Starsky had laughed his old joyous laugh when he'd found out what his partner was doing. The first half dozen sessions he was too tired and sore to notice Ken doing his chest presses and bicep curls in a corner. Even when he'd figured it out, he didn't say anything to make fun of it. He wasn't stupid, he knew that Hutch had to get rid of the anger, the rage, the frustration Starsky's injury and his inability to stop the shooting from going down had caused. He made sure he didn't do anything that would stop the new activity. Not then, nor when Hutch kept going to the gym months later.

 

Hutch still ran, and that was good, it kept him from getting too bulky. Starsky himself was in possibly the best shape of his life. He knew without a doubt that Hutch was.

 

Now, he was caught by surprise one more time at the sheer size of his partner. Hutch had put on a good twenty pounds of raw muscle and not one ounce of fat. Not muscle bound, just long, lean, powerful looking muscle thicker than he'd been before, but in all the best places. Hutch had always been beautiful, now he looked like an Olympic class athlete. A Greek statue. The perfect male physique.

 

Starsky felt the fluttering start in his stomach. He turned away before Hutch could catch him looking. He felt confused. Why should he want to look? Aside from the fact his partner and friend now had a body that was terrific? Why should he be interested in it at all?

 

He occupied himself with putting his jeans in the plastic bag, stuffing his shirt in after it, and his shorts on the bottom, tying the top shut, ready to be taken home and washed. The fetid odor of the last crime scene clung to him and to Hutch. He'd rather go home wrapped in a towel than put those sweaty, wrinkled, reeking things on again. But luckily he had police issue sweats in his locker, just like Hutch. The clothes he had been wearing smelled of death and decay. He planned to put them through two cycles of the washer. While holding his nose.

 

"Jesus Christ!" The exclamation made him jump and he whirled around. Hand going serpent fast for his weapon lying on the locker shelf. He whipped around, gun in hand to see a naked Hutch striding over to him. He looked around wildly, seeking out the problem...but they were alone in the police locker room. His heart was racing at twice it's usual rate. He straightened up from his crouch and willed his pulse to slow, his heart to leave his throat.

 

Hutch reached him in a half dozen strides, grabbed his shoulder, turning him. "Put the gun down, Starsk. What the hell happened to your back?" The growl was in his partner's voice. A tone that Starsky was familiar with, but it always raised the hair on his neck to hear it. It was rare to hear it directed at himself.

 

Starsky obeyed the order, releasing his hold on his gun with a clatter, then tried to crane his head around to see. "What? What?" He asked. He was sore, a bit achy, but he knew that already. He couldn't see anything else that should upset his partner. "What is wrong? Wad'd'ya see?"

 

For an answer Hutch dragged him over to the floor length mirror fastened to the wall, positioning him so his back was to it. And for the first time since he'd woken up yesterday, he could see the back of his body.

 

"That." The blond pointed to the red, purple and blue marks. "How did that happen?"

 

And Starsky saw. Bruises. Oddly shaped. Irregular. Over his low back, hips and the back of his thighs. His heart skipped a beat. He'd seen bruises like those before. Less than a half day ago. On the back of Stephen Miles. And not much earlier than that on the first male rape victim, the kid, Chuck Van Deen.

 

"Starsk." Hutch's low, insistent voice hissed into his ear. His big hand was hard, but oddly tender on the smaller man's arm. "Those are hand prints on you. All over you. Bruises. Contusions. How did that happen? When did it happen? Who did that to you?"

 

"I don't know," Starsky held up a hand when Hutch started to protest, the piercing blue eyes of his best friend and fellow cop fixing him. "Really, I woke up yesterday. Couldn't remember a thing. But..."

 

"But? But what?" Hutch let out the ominous low rumble that he used when he was very unhappy.

 

"I was sore, like I'd had great sex. Only," He took a short breath, steeled himself. "Only... When I showered, and I washed...there was blood. Down there. And I was sore. Down there. My ass." He admitted, for the first time letting himself really think about what that meant.

 

"And that didn't seem unusual? Why didn't you say something?" The look on Hutch's face was uncomprehending. "You have been popping aspirn all day. I knew something was wrong. Damn it Starsky why didn't you tell me?"

 

"I figured she did something with me. You know, with toys or something." Starsky mumbled. He didn't want to discuss this with Hutch especially not here at the precinct. He lowered his voice further, forcing Hutch to lean in close to hear him. "I've done it before. Sort of like it. When they like to do it." He met his partner's agonized eyes briefly, then looked away.

 

"You mean like vibrators. That kind of thing." Hutch stated watching his best friend's face. He felt as if his heart was breaking. He never wanted to invade the other man's privacy. This was one of the few things he hadn't know about his friend. It made him ache to have to learn of it this way.

 

"Yeah." Starsky nodded. Their eyes held for a long moment.

 

Mercifully Hutch didn't ask more questions about what he liked his girls to do. Starsky wasn't ready to let his partner know that every once in a while he couldn't stand vanilla sex anymore and he asked his women to use toys on him. He liked anal play. It could get him off like nothing else. He counted himself lucky when he found a female sex partner who would do that for him and not be disgusted. A lady he trusted enough to ask.

 

"She who?" Hutch asked next. Starsky stared at him.

 

"Uhm..." He said. Not happy with having to admit he didn't know.

 

"Who was it?" Hutchinson asked again, his eyes narrowing, knowing that something was wrong. He felt panic rising in his gut. "You don't remember? Starsk...."

 

"I've done it before. Nothing wrong with it." The darker man said defensively. He had to have been real drunk to ask a woman he didn't know to do this to him. Drunk and stupid. It was Hutch's turn to shake his head. His voice softened to velvet.

 

"I don't think one of your ladies did this, babe. This looks too much like what we've been seeing. On the rape victims. Tell me what you do remember." Starsky couldn't stop another instinctive glance around the locker room, making sure they were alone.

 

"The lady I left Huggy's with the other night. The blond." Starsky said slowly, willing Hutch to remember. "The one you told me about. I figured it was her."

 

"Starsky." Hutch swallowed. "I didn't see who you left with. Huggy was there, but I'd already left. He said you talked with a woman for a while, then you started talking with a man about the Torino. You were both car nuts, Huggy said. You left with a blond guy ~and~ a blonde gal. Talking cars and racing. Huggy said you announced to everyone that you were going home after you showed him your car."

 

The curly haired man stared at him. "Huggy got it wrong." He offered at last, needing to deny it. Hutch just looked at him, his thumb easing along the muscle twitching in his friend's tense shoulder. The silence stretched.

 

"I left with some guy? But Hutch, I'm not gay." Starsky said. "It can't have anything to do with...."

 

Hutch didn't say anything for a minute, then he spread his hand out and placed it over one of the marks. It was his size, and Hutch had big hands, with long fingers. Bigger than any woman's hand. Bigger hands than Starsky or most other men had. Their eyes met in the mirror.

 

"I had a beer." Starsky said, thinking hard.

 

"You had more than one." Hutch said back.

 

"No. No. I mean it tasted funny. Sweet sort of. Not right. That's the last thing I remember about being there, at The Pits." His deep blue eyes lifted, locked with the icy ones of the man in front of him. It was impossible to tell which one of them was more upset, but they both knew. Absolutely knew, that there had been at least three victims of the rapist. And Starsky was one.

 

Starsky pushed away and headed down the row of lockers. "I need a shower."

 

Hutch grabbed him with his huge, gentle hands. "You can't. We have to get you to the hospital, get an exam done...."

 

"No. No doctors, no hospitals. Don't want anyone to know. No one Hutch. Just you and me. No one else." He grabbed onto the other man's forearms. Leaned it. His eyes blazing. "No one else. Not even Dobey. Or Huggy. Promise me." He shook the bigger man.

 

Hutch's face was twisted in pain. "Starsky you have to get checked...you need professional help."

 

"No. Promise me." He insisted in a hoarse voice. "I can handle this if no one else knows. Just you. Me and thee. You'll help me through this. Just me and thee. Please, Hutch."

 

Hutch had never been able to refuse the look that Starsky was giving him. "Oh ghod, Starsk...."

 

Starsky shook his shoulders again. "Hutch...I need you...ya gotta promise...."

 

And Hutch capitulated. Starsky turned and led the way into the showers, wasting no time. The steam rose from the stinging spray as he turned the facet up high. Hutch took the shower head next to his.

 

Hutch watched him soap up. There probably wasn't much in the way of evidence left after this long. But if there was...he watched it wash down the drain as Starsky scrubbed and rinsed. Scrubbed and rinsed. Scrubbed and rinsed.

 

Until Hutch gave up and reached for the soap clutched in his partner's hand, pulling him into the softer spray of his own shower. And scrubbed and rinsed the reddened skin carefully one last time before leading him firmly out of the water. He couldn't watch it any longer.

 

His best friend trying to wash the unremebered but undeniable violation off of his skin.


	7. Part 7

The second dead body of the series was only slightly less decomposed than the first one that had been found. Both had reeked to high heaven.

 

Even Starsky had succumbed to the urge to hold a handkerchief with a bit of Mentholatum over his nose when Hutch, far less concerned with what anyone thought of his macho image, handed him the cloth while they bent over the second body.

 

The hell with looking like a green rookie who was at his first crime scene. It took a lot of willpower not to puke at first the one then the other grisly decayed corpse. Combined, the scenes had to be among the worst decomps they had encountered. Not so with the next body.

 

The need to shower after being in close proximity to the second DB had lead to the revelation that he, David Michael Starsky was the victim of the male rapist he and Hutch were assigned to catch. A secret that only he and Hutch shared. The last thing he needed was to have the whole department snickering at him, telling tales. Thinking of him like that. Too weak to defend his own virtue, not much of a cop. He shook off the grim thoughts.

 

The third body was almost fresh compared to corpses one and two. Instead of smelling like rotting flesh, it smelled strongly of urine, vomit and feces and even bad breath. Which didn't surprise Starsky when he got a good look at the guy. His face was completely recognizable under the bruises.

 

And suddenly Starsky felt all the pieces begin to slide into place. Lumpy, unattractive, ravaged by alcohol and hard living. And a few fist fights that had been doozies if the scar tissue around the eyes, and the squashed-flat nose were anything to go by.

 

Bruno the Ape, hitman and enforcer for Marco DePaulus who ran the most lucrative numbers racket in Bay City. A real gem of a guy. He would have been perfectly at home in Starsky's old home town of New York. With all the east coast wiseguys to play with. A low level and incredibly vicious shark in the scummy end of the Bay City pond.

 

Starsky was not sorry to see him laying on the asphalt next to a dumpster. The man had lived in the dregs of life, beating gamblers and unsuspecting idiots who fell into debt, who owed Marco, and breaking legs whenever he wanted to get the point across. The point being, not to be late paying up. Not to complain either. Even if the 200% interest per month was a little exorbitant. Starsky's internal grin/grimace showed teeth. Yeah, this was exactly the way he expected guys like Bruno to go.

 

"Well, well." Said Hutch as he walked up to the corpse Starsky was regarding with no little satisfaction. Gravel crunched under his feet, but even so he moved fairly quietly, easy on his feet, quick and agile. The fine blond brows rose when he too saw who it was stretched out on the ground. Starsky watched Hutch's full, expressive lips curl echoing his own feelings. Hutch was even more of a do-gooder than Starsky. He fairly glowed when certain elements were taken off the streets. How ever they were taken off. Strasky watched the brief gleam of his partner's teeth before Hutch recomposed his face. 

 

"Looks like Bruno met his match." Was the quiet statement he at last uttered. And his eyes looked coldly pleased. Starsky, the only one to see that particular look as he gazed down at the body, wouldn't judge him for it. He felt exactly the same.

 

But it was a murder, they had no doubt of it. And while it wasn't the type that they'd mourn at all, they still would solve it. That was their job, and they were good at it. Any way there had to be someone real bad out there to have offed Bruno successfully. The kind of person Bay City didn't need on it's streets any more than they'd needed Bruno.

 

Starsky nodded at the implied opinion that was buried in the short sentence his partner spoke. His own mind was traveling in the same direction. No one would have been able to sneak up on Bruno Vitaglia. Not even his own mother. He was suspicious and mean. Violent and aggressive, and totally without hesitation when it came to answering any threat to himself or to Marco. He would have questioned or killed anyone who got near him. A skilled killer had taken out this man. Maybe....probably some one just like him.

 

"Someone is trying to take over the business." Hutch remarked very quietly as he squatted down next to the dead man. His voice was pitched low enough that despite the rest of the people milling around, only Starsky and the two senior uniforms sidling closer to the body heard him. They grunted their agreement.

 

The two men, officer O'Reilly, a tall, brown haired man, obviously Irish, and officer Green a shorter, thicker, powerfully built, black man, with his cap pushed back and sweat shining on his broad forehead, nodded, silently agreeing. They'd been around this block far too many times. Just like the younger detectives. They'd seen it all.

 

Starsky placed a hand on his partner's shoulder. No way was he risking his partner toppling onto that disgusting, dead thing. Disgusting not because he was dead, so much, though that didn't help. Nor because of the blood and piss and vomit on him. But more because of the kind of guy he was. The Medical Examiner's staff was moving all around. And they weren't too careful about who they bumped into.

 

"Gang war?" Starsky muttered almost into Hutch's ear, bending down until his curls brushed Hutch's fine wispy blond hair. Hutch nodded, a few light strands of his hair brushing Starsky's cheek, catching for an instant on the heavier stubble of the dark man's jaw. The faint, familiar scent of his partner filled Starsky's nostrils.

 

"Pretty drawn out for a gang war." Hutch responded a moment later, straightening effortlessly to his full height, thighs bunching as he rose. Starsky noticed the change in expression when the nearest patrol officer's eyes widened, and he took a step back. O'Reilly was tall, almost as tall as Hutch. He wasn't much used to feeling small, or intimidated by size, but Hutch...Hutch was big. Starsky came close to smiling at the alarmed awareness he saw in the uniform's gaze. Yeah Hutch caught people by surprise. O'Reilly'd been looking at the dead man, and he'd come a little close to the blond detective when he bent forward. Hutch took up a lot of space lately.

 

"Yeah. The first one died a couple a weeks ago, at least." Starsky agreed. "Someone's moving in real careful. Not wantin' ta advertise. Not wantin' the cops ta know." Hutch nodded, looming almost protectively over his partner, blue eyes surveying the scene further out from the body. Starsky felt a wave of warmth and gratitude. Anyone else though, acting like this, mother-henning him, and they'd get a piece of his mind, if not an elbow in the gut to give them the message Starsky didn't like to be crowded.

 

Starsky didn't step back from his partner, though. He never had any problem being close to the man he knew was the best friend he had in the world and always would be. If their arms bumped, if their shoulders brushed, if he leaned into the big blond, if they jostled each other, shared a hot dog or a coke, it was just fine. He liked the contact, and Hutch did, too.

 

Starsky was man enough to admit he loved his partner. Considered him family, as close as blood. And loved him more than he did his own brother, Nicky. Starsky didn't feel guilty about it. Not any more. He and Hutch had been through the fire together. Each being shot and coming close to death at different times. Each being as responsible as the doctors and nurses for the other's recovery. That created a bond that no one could break.

 

Terry had been real close to that much love, and Starsky would have married her. He might have even believed he had the whole ball of wax with her. If he had not known Hutch. Terry liked to say that she and he were best friends. Starsky had always flinched inside to hear it. He loved her. But there was no doubt in his mind who was his best friend. Who was the most important person in his life. He'd wanted to marry Terry, but Hutch...Hutch was necessary to his life. Hutch was necessary to who he was.

 

Hutch. 

 

Hutch, his partner had the brass ring. Hutch, who he had felt all along was who he was supposed to spend his days with. Work with. Be with. Talk to. Confess to. Trust with the things he could not trust anyone else with. Like being the victim of rape. A man who had been raped. Maybe it was sexist, but it was worse in his eyes when a man was raped. Was it because he could identify with them? Or that a woman expected somehow to be penetrated by a man...while another man did not? Not if he was straight. He pushed aside the intruding reminder that he liked things up his butt, as long as it was a girl putting them up there. Trying to put his feelings into words wasn't helping.

 

Oh, ghod, he didn't want to think about this now. Not here. Not now. He turned his thoughts back to Hutch. They had a murder to solve, three of them. Linked. Starsky was absolutely sure of it. But his mind defeated him again.

 

The only thing he and Hutch looked for outside of "me and thee" was sex. He saw the blond beauty that was his partner, Hutch was gorgeous. If he could fall for any man it would be Hutch. The fact that he hadn't made it clear to him he was as straight as any guy could be.

 

Starsky shuddered, trying not to fall into those images again. Not to think of what had happened to him. Not to try and work out what it must have been like. What wasn't possible to deny. For a while he might forget. If he kept busy. But then the ideas would creep back. Harassing him. Why couldn't he remember? Some cop he was. Any man, heck anyone at all, should be able to remember something like that happening to them. How was it that he had no recall at all. Maybe it hadn't happened. Maybe it had been a woman and he'd been willing, and just too stupid-drunk to remember her.

 

His body, sure, now that he thought about it. The signs were there. He'd ignored them in favor of more comfortable possibilities. Things that he'd done in the past that explained the feelings. The aches. He flushed. He'd really pulled the wool over his own eyes. 100% denial.

 

"Hey." Hutch bumped him gently, taking care to keep the contact casual. "You OK?" He asked with his eyes and his words.

 

"Yeah. Had enough of this guy. Let's get outta here. We gotta find out who the other two are. Find out if they belong to Marco or not. Things might get pretty hairy on the street if we don't figure it out fast." The curly haired man said as they headed towards the Tomato. Hutch was a large, warm presence at his side.


	8. Part 8

They sat in Hutch's car in the police parking lot, at an impasse. Starsky wasn't going anywhere until they'd talked this problem out. He wasn't taking any chances on Hutch's emotions getting the better of either of them. If Hutch stewed long enough, he might try to talk in the precinct. And that wasn't what Starsky wanted. There was no such thing as privacy inside that building. Not for this kind of secret. No matter how many closed and locked doors, no matter how low the whispers. Not when it had to do with him, with a thing this private.

 

So they sat in the old beater of a car. Hutch staring out of the window, one long, golden arm hanging out, the sun bleached hair like spun metal along his forearm, thick and powerful with corded muscle, each delicate gold hair catching the light filtering down through the trees.

 

Starsky tried to think of what to say. He couldn't tell his partner not to worry. Hutch worried. Hutch should have been the Jewish one. And someone's mother at that. Right now the blond man was watching the approaches to the parking lot and the entrance to the garage. His sharp, blue gaze traveling from one point to the other, not missing a single car, a single person. Alert.

 

Hutch didn't have family that he wanted to spend any kind of time with, and because there was no Mrs. Ken Hutchinson, since Van died there wasn't even an ex Mrs.K, Starsky got all of the mothering. Not a bad thing most times. Like when Ken made the Paul Muni special dinner for him. With candles, and wine and tablecloths, cloth napkins. All 'a that. That was real nice. Hutch'd called Starsky's own mother to find out the recipe. When Hutch did that kind of thing for him, that was special.

 

But this time. It worried him. Because he could see Hutch was hurting. As bad as he was hurting, his best friend was, too. Hutch needed to take care of him. Starsky was a little reluctant to be taken care of right now. He was sort of being forced to question his masculinity, his ability to take care of himself in a round-about way. Because of what had happened. Because of some thoughts he'd had. About Hutch. Looking at Hutch.

 

How had he, David Starsky, been picked out of all of the guys in Bay City for this creep to prey on? Why would any rapist pick on a cop? Did the even guy know he was a cop? There were easier targets. Softer prey, even for a sicko rapist who liked to take his chances attacking men. Men had a better chance of fighting back than women. Of getting in a few shots of their own. Targeting men was taking risks. On purpose? Was the risk the thrill?

 

The guy might not have a choice. He might not be able to get it up for a gal. He might be gay. But Starsky knew enough about rape to not count on that. Rape wasn't about getting sex. It wasn't about being physically attracted and wanting someone. Rape was about being able to take something by force. He wouldn't be surprised to find out the perp thought he was purely heterosexual.

 

He snorted. Sick creep. At the snort, Hutch turned back towards him, eyebrows raised, asking without asking if the silent wait in the car was over, if Starsky had something to say. But the dark haired detective wasn't ready yet. Hutch recognized the signs that meant the other man was still thinking and returned his own gaze to the space outside the car.

 

He'd been raped. Starsky knew it. But he didn't want to admit it out loud. It didn't feel like he thought it would. He didn't feel outraged, angry. He didn't feel like crying. He felt confused. Maybe it was because he couldn't remember anything. Maybe when it came back to him than he'd cry, yell, want to hit things and people.

 

Yeah, that was how he felt...confused. Off balance. Like everyone knew something he didn't. Like he was the only one in the dark. He was in the Twilight Zone, like the show on TV. Not knowing if what was happening was real. He shook his head, a sharp, abrupt movement to jolt him out of that train of thought.

 

Hutch had wanted to report the rape. Still did. Kept trying to talk Starsky into it. Kept coming up with all the good arguments. A lot of them the same ones they'd used on Miles, the second known vic. About VD. Sex. Girls.

 

Starsky didn't want to think about sex. Or VD. He'd wait, see what the other men's tests came out. If they came up positive for Gonorrhea, or Syphilis, then he'd go to the clinic, get treated. But right now, not getting treated wasn't putting anyone at risk. He wasn't going to have sex with anyone. The idea made him...well...thinking about sex made him feel sick. Which he had almost told Hutch to reassure the other man there wasn't anything to worry about, that he wasn't going to turn into a typhoid Mary and spread diseases all around. Then it occurred to him, just in time that that information would be the last straw. Hutch would pick him up bodily if he knew how Starsky was feeling about sex, and not put him down until he was on some shrink's couch. And that would be worse than going to a regular doctor. Having some guy he didn't know asking him questions about his feelings. His feeling about not being able to stop himself from being fucked. How it felt to know someone had done that to him.

 

Starsky only just managed to keep his partner from dragging him down to Bay City Memorial and demanding Starsky undergo a rape kit and exam. That was the last thing he wanted. But Hutch's need to take care of him was deeply violated by Starsky's own request not to do anything. Most pointedly not to take him to get the medical care Hutch believed he had to have. Yeah. Hutch was the Jewish mother between the two of them.

 

And Starsky also refused to tell Captain Dobey. Or anyone else official. He also refused to agree out loud, any more, with Hutch, that he had been the victim of sexual assault without being aware of it. He would not say the words. That didn't mean he thought it hadn't happened. It meant he wasn't going to say it, that was all. He wasn't going to look his partner in the eye and say, "Hutch, some bastard held me down, stuck his dick up my ass and fucked me." He couldn't say it. He wanted to forget it. Let the knowledge fade away and be forgotten.

 

"Starsk?" The deep, soft voice of his friend interrupted the increasingly disturbing thoughts. Recalling him to the daylight, the sun, the warmth, and the battered car so typical of all of Hutch's vehicles, they were still sitting in. He drew in a slow breath, running a finger down the rust dotted chrome around the open window.

 

"Yeah." He said, pushing a hand though his disordered hair. Hutch reached out and took his wrist. Thank ghod that hadn't changed. Hutch kept right on touching him, like nothing had happened. Like Starsky wanted him to. He didn't know what he'd do if Hutch stopped doing that. Started acting different. Afraid of him, like he might not want or need to be touched. Or like he might break. Starsky could act normal as long as Hutch kept doing that. Hutch's eyes asked him questions he had to answer.

 

"I am not going to go around the precinct and have the guys looking at me like I am some sort of poor schmuck of a victim for getting beat up." He told Hutch. Finding some words to break the quiet, stringing them together. Hutch's eyes grew sadder, and if possible, more filled with the affection and love that were always there for him.

 

"Starsk, you are a victim. And not just of simple assault. No one just beat you up. Some one drugged you and..." Hutch said in his careful, soothing, talk-the-jumper-down-from-the-ledge voice. But Starsky shook his head, stopping the sentence with a look into the crystalline eyes. Hutch rubbed his thumb over the strong boned wrist he continued to hold gently. His eyes were filled with all the emotions Starsky wasn't letting out.

 

"I just need to work. If I have a problem, then I'll go see a doc. But not the department doc, or Memorial. I'll go to a private doc. Huggy has to know someone." Starsky said, letting the pleasure of Hutch's hand on him send reassuring waves through him.

 

"You saying you are willing to tell Huggy?" Hutch asked, gaze intent. Knowing it was important, that if Starsky could start talking to people about what had happened....it was a step in the right direction. "See if he can find someone to help?"

 

"If...If I have a problem. I don't have a problem yet." He insisted, but without heat. He wasn't angry at the man who sat next to him, hand on the cracked steering wheel of his heap of a car, and the other wrapped so gently around his own arm.

 

"You need to go to a counselor, Starsk...There is a problem." Hutch began. But Starsky glared at him, and he shook his head, throwing up his left hand, not giving up the hold he had with the other. "You aren't sleeping. I know....."

 

"I am, too." The dark haired man asserted, sharply. Insisting on the lie.

 

"No, babe, you aren't. Your lights are on every time I drive by." hutch called him on it, as usual not willing to let there be anything less that truthful between them. Not since Kyra. That had been the last time. No lies since then.

 

"So I am sleeping with the lights on." Starsky admitted. Not adding that he was ~trying~ to sleep. Without much success. He glared at Hutch, fuming. Hutch was checking up on him. Cruising by after he'd dropped him off. Maybe even coming up to his door and checking that everything was locked.... Starsky closed his eyes, dropping his head back to rest on the seat, scooting lower. Stunned. Hutch was checking up on him. The relief was shocking. Hutch was out there at night making sure he was safe.

 

Hutch's hold tightened, forearms rippling, the hold snugging, secure.

 

"No. Starsky, this is me. Don't lie to me. Me and thee, remember. You aren't sleeping." Hutch finally gave up the hold on Starsky's wrist, and the skin felt unbearably cold once he let go. Starsky swallowed. Hutch stroked a finger down the lean, bristly cheek. And that was almost as good. Starsky leaned int the touch. Hutch let his fingers trail up into the tight curls, massaging, cupping the beloved skull in his big, powerful hands. Good hands. Hands that would do anything they had to to keep him safe.

 

"You are exhausted. Didn't even shave for me this morning. You know how easy I get whisker burns." And they both heard the catch in the voice that gave a lie to the light hearted attempt. Because Hutch did get whisker burn easy. Once just from holding Starsky when the other man was recovering from Gunther's shooting. Holding him all night so he could sleep.

 

"I don't need a counselor. I told ya, Hutch. If I got a problem I'll go see the doc. I don't want no one ta find out about this." He turned into the hand that had framed around the side of his head.

 

"Dave...."

 

Starsky turned fully to face his partner, His cheek coming to rest in the big palm, his expression showing the shock he felt at hearing Hutch address him in that tone, and by his first name. A name that was almost never used between them. Hutch was going to ask him for something, something he couldn't refuse, not if Hutch asked. And he wasn't going to be able to stand it if Hutch did.

 

"No. Please. Don't ask." He said. And Hutch looked away, Turned his brilliant blue eyes away, but not before Starsky saw the suspicious shine. "Aw, babe, don't...."

 

"Fine. Then I am coming over to stay with you. If you can sleep when I am there..." He let the warning hang. And as much as it bothered him, Hutch giving up time with his lady, Starsky didn't protest. He knew when he'd driven the other man to the edge of his endurance. Hutch had reached the limit. He had to feel he'd won some part of this discussion.

 

"Thought you had a date...." He managed to tease through a tight, squeezed throat.

 

"Dinner and back to my place." Hutch confirmed. "Guess it will just have to be dinner. The rest can wait."

 

"I won't open the door to you until after ten." Starsky insisted. "You enjoy yourself Hutch. Don't let me ruin it for you." They shared along look, minutes ticking by, the look never becoming uncomfortable. Hutch nodded.

 

"Ten. I'll be there." He said.

 

"Now, ya done?" Starsky let the faintest hint of a whine into his tone. "Can we get outta here?"

 

The look Hutch turned on him was outraged. Starsky grabbed for the door handle.


	9. Part 9

The man watched the carefully metered dose of the sedative/hypnotic drug as it fell drop by drop from the tip of the syringe. Odorless and colorless. Tasteless when taken with a strongly flavored food or beverage. Like the cold pizza in the cop's refrigerator the first bit of food the man had considered. Or the opened bottle of root beer, hastily recapped when duty called the cop away before he could drink it.

 

Yes. The intruder decided. The root beer. The fizz would conceal a multitude of sins. And he wouldn't have to decide how much to put on the pizza. What if the cop ate two slices? Or four? No. The rootbeer was the best chance of delivery. He let the trembling, crystal drops fall from his syringe into the brown liquid. Five, ten, fifteen drops. A teaspoon. A moderately large dose, sure. More than enough to make the man he had his eye on cooperative and pliant. He refitted the cap to the long necked soda bottle. Wiped the top free of fingerprints, then the sides. Set it back on the shelf. Smiling to himself, imaging the hand that had held the bottle last.

 

The dark, curly haired cop had been exquisite to watch and observe. The fire of his personality, the sparkle in his eye, the energy more than he usually found in his targets, the men who for one reason or another caught his attention.

 

He'd taken college boys, their innocence and naivety usually the draw, skin fresh and unlined, unmarked by life; the older men, a treat to twist all they were familiar with, to turn them to his will, to hear them cry out, more startled even than the untried boys at the unexpected feel of what he did to them. To prove that he could take them wherever he wanted them to go, that was why he liked older men.

 

And the others, the ones who were really a challenge, the men in their prime, both by the measure of their age, experience and their physical condition. Men tuned by nature to always be ready, to feel more intensely any sex, and to respond accordingly, with vigor and hidden depths. Like this cop. A lady's man by reputation. But...the toys that were secreted in the back of his nightstand drawer...well they put the lie to that. They told him where the man's true passion lay. Just waiting to be awakened, shown the true path to ecstasy. He smiled thinking of finding those during his first foray into this apartment, before the first night he'd joined the officer in bed.

 

He'd watched the two men carefully as they went about their duties, being sure to rent a different car each day, it wouldn't do to be spotted for simple convenience. It was easy to see they were more than police partners, they were almost always together, and for a short time he'd feared they were lovers, that they were soiled and not worthy of his attention. For he liked his men to be new to his kind of love, untouched, unsullied by other masculine hands. But they were so right for what he wanted he'd kept watching, getting to know their patterns, and discovering enough evidence that they were not lovers to keep him interested.

 

Tonight was Tuesday. Tuesday the blond cop spent with his semi-regular stewardess girlfriend, Tuesday being the day of the week she flew into Bay City for a layover. It had taken at least three weeks to establish the pattern for certain. A fourth week made him fairly sure. It was on a Tuesday he'd visited the first time. And tonight....a second visit, if all worked out well. Another trip to his own kind of paradise.

 

Tuesday was the only night the dark haired one spent alone every week. The rest of the nights were spent out catting around or with his partner, or both. Coming home with one lady or another with frightening frequency, an avalanche of female flesh, blonde, brunette, redhead...the dark haired man liked them all. The man smiled to himself, wiping his prints from the door handle of the fridge as he closed it. The women were not his rivals. They were just women. Women had their place. Just not in his bed.

 

This apartment was perfectly situated for his purposes, it's back windows almost completely in the dark, only a little of the uncertain light from the street lamps reaching around it. He had hardly believed a cop would live in a place like this. So vulnerable to breaching. He grinned at the pun. Both the apartment and the resident who lived inside were vulnerable to breaching. It was his good luck that they were. A clear sign it was meant to be. That the officer was being offered to him by fate, meant for his pleasure.

 

He had prepared himself for this challenge by setting up prior encounters with several civilians, getting his head into the game after his move from Atlanta. He'd selected men who weren't so observant. Men who weren't used to fighting back or resisting. Men who wouldn't recognize a predator as he stalked them. Wouldn't see who he was under the skin.

 

He had grown very, very good at hiding it, the rapacious beast that filled his gut, burned for prey and the play time he might have with his victims. People liked him, trusted him. He'd been hired at his first job interview, no sweat. He'd never not been offered a job once he'd interviewed for it. Like when he took his men. He had never failed, he had never been caught. But that was because he was very careful with his planning. He left nothing to chance. And people liked him, trusted him, confided in him. It made him good at his job. It also made him good at getting close to the men he wanted.

 

After he finished mixing the drug into the root beer the cop was likely to drink, he hurried around the apartment to check the microphones and cameras. He'd chosen the dark haired one after looking at the size of the other cop. The blond appealed to him aesthetically, a very beautiful man. All man, with big muscles and a animal power that made his mouth water to think of it spread out willingly under him, butt propped up and offering...smooth as watered silk...he sighed.

 

But the blond was bigger and stronger and more dangerous because of it. He worked out, and after seeing the poundage the blond used when taking a "tour" through the gym... Well, it didn't make sense to risk the possibility that the man might be able to over power him, even sedated. One lucky blow from a fist with muscle like that behind it, and it might all be over. Accident, or luck, or both. No, it wasn't worth taking the chance.

 

Especially not with such a fine alternative so near and so available. The dark, curly haired one was beautiful in his own way. Vibrant, sparkling with life. Sure his face was nothing so perfect as the blond's, but he had something indefinable. And after that one night they'd shared, he knew he'd made the right choice. The sounds the other man had made, the deep groaning, the sighs...the flush that suffused his face right at the moment of orgasm...as the man twisted his tiny, hard nips... It had been the best so far. So good he was taking a chance he shouldn't. One he new better than to take. He was coming back for more.

 

The dark haired man wasn't weak, but he was only of average power and strength, a fit man in a physically demanding job. Well within his own abilities. He knew that if the planning was right, if he minimized the chances...then it would work out fine. He would once again have the upper hand. He could, just this once, have his cake a second time, and eat it, too.

 

He let the grin grow until it spread across his handsome face. Oh, yeah it was definitely worth it. He stroked a finger across the card in his hand. Over the small photograph. Over Starsky's driver's license. This one was going to be the best yet. He slipped the card into his pocket, patted it.

 

The cameras were all in working order, the mics in place, he could trigger them with a remote, collect them after wards. He exited the apartment as he'd left, through the back window, and there was no trace of his passage to the casual eye. Now he needed only to watch and to wait for his lover to come home.

 

He smiled at that word. His lover. Lover. Yes. He would make love to the man. He would once again feel the tight body give in to him, feel the other man's body grow aroused, feel the orgasm, the sweet pulse of his channel around his cock. The thought alone was enough to keep him comfortable and warm, half aroused as he waited, out of sight, for the man to come home alone.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

Starsky opened the 'frige. He felt restless, the last thing he wanted when he'd stood on the sidewalk after Hutch dropped him off, was to watch the back of Hutch's old beater pull away. He didn't like being alone or being here. Not anymore. Now he was both alone, even though it was only for a few hours, and here. Two bad things. He scowled as he uncapped the rootbeer a second time.

 

He'd been the one to talk his partner into not giving up the night out with his best girl. He'd made his bed so to speak, now he was stuck with it. He could wait until ten. Or later if he had to. In fact he should call Hutch now and tell him to spend the whole night with her. Let Hutch enjoy himself. One more night up watching late night TV wouldn't kill him. Hutch deserved some quality sex and loving.

 

He should call, but Starsky made no move towards the phone. He was honest enough with himself to admit he wanted Hutch to come over, he wanted to be able to relax enough to sleep. Just one night. That was all he needed to get back into the swing of it. To ease the tension. To trust the safety of his home again. Having Hutch out on the couch would make him feel safer. He was man enough to admit it. Who on earth wouldn't feel safer with the big, blond man around? Especially as he came, gun included. Starsky let himself relax after the little joke.

 

He grabbed the rootbeer and raised it to his mouth. Took a gulp. Still fizzy. Good. It was his last one or he'd have tossed it. Should try to get to the store in the morning or he'd be reduced to eating peanut butter on crackers for breakfast, lunch and dinner. He wandered over to the couch, snapped on the lamp, settled his gun on the side table. When all else failed to keep his mind off what had happened, the "incident", he watched TV. He sometimes managed a few minutes of sleep doing that. Or almost an hour, once. He yawned, stuck in that place of too tired and too wired to worry about falling asleep.

 

Anything, everything. He used all the tricks he could think of to distract himself. Noise. Something to keep his mind busy with unimportant stuff. Movies. He settled back. Channel five. Godzilla Meets Mothra. He took a swig of root beer. All right. He hadn't seen that one in a while....He liked Japanese dinosaur movies with their cheap special effects.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

The sound of movement from inside the apartment died away.

 

Still the man in the bushes waited, listening via his earpiece. The TV was the only sound. Finally he approached the back of the building, looked in. Saw the figure of his cop, his man, flaked out on the couch. legs sprawled in unconscious, innocent and sexy invitation. On the table, an empty bottle. Rootbeer. Good choice, he thought. No sign of the pizza. Another sign that this was meant to be.

 

He slid the window open, the oiled tracks silent, and climbed in. He stood over the other man, listening to the light snores. Beautiful. He turned off one of the lights. Too much light spoiled things, it wasn't romantic. But there had to be enough light that he could take pictures. Pictures he could enjoy later. Pictures he could share with the world, with this man's fellow cops to prove he had been here, in this apartment, with this man. Prove he'd been invited into this body without a fight. To show everyone how beautiful making love with this man was.

 

He lifted the lighter man, carrying him into the bedroom. The sheets were clean, unused. He smiled. It was almost as if his man here was expecting him to visit.


	10. Part 10

It was only chance that made him look up when he did. Rising up on his knees the slightly furry thighs of his lover splayed around his own legs, warm and powerful, damp with their sweat and other fluids. The scent of sex was strong in the air, heady, intoxicating. He glanced up, not for any reason in particular. Maybe it was instinct, a predator's sensitivity to survival that made him look up just then.

 

He saw the flashing lights at the end of the street a second before they were turned off. There were no sirens. A silent approach. He knew it was meant for him. Something had gone wrong. They knew he was here. And he had almost no time left to escape.

 

He was up, off of the bed, leaving the cameras, the microphones, the Polaroids. He dressed as he went, fastening his clothes, not even removing the condom he still wore. He had only seconds before it would be too late to make his successful escape. He floated out the back window, and down the embankment behind, vanishing into the dark as he heard the crunch of the cruiser braking in front of the cops apartment. The doors snicked open, weren't closed, not wanting to give the warning of even that sound. He barely heard the sound of heavily shod feet moving over gravelly blacktop. They were quick and quiet, he was faster and quieter. And he was gone.

 

He didn't stay behind to watch or to gloat. They were too late, but only by seconds. He had only just gotten free. He would take those seconds and disappear. He wouldn't question the gift. He buttoned his shirt as he walked. His cameras, film, photos and recordings were left behind. A real shame. But it also meant everyone would know about him and the curly haired cop. Everyone would know Starsky belonged to him. Submitted to him. Was his.

 

He had at least gotten what he was after. And that was so sweet. The feel of that body, the heat of his flesh, the warmth he slid into...it had been worth it. No question. It was an experience he would never forget.

 

The only regret....that he'd had to use a condom with the man. For the first time he wished he'd been able to feel him, flesh to flesh, bareback. It didn't matter with the others, but this one was special. This one....he smiled as he strode up to the side of his car, unlocked the black and white and got in. He pulled out into traffic and headed home to sleep before his am shift.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

 

The tires of the old car screeched, the back end slewed left as Hutch roared up to the scene then stood on the brakes. It thumped hard into the curb, the door flying open.

 

He was out and running before the last rattle of the engine had died. He left his door open, lights on, not caring, his keys in the ignition. He plowed up into the crowd of uniforms and detectives, looking around frantically. He'd thought his heart would stop when he'd gotten the phone call. He'd broken about every law there was getting here in record time.

 

His mind screamed at him, "no, no, no...." As he saw the ambulance gurney being lifted into the back of the rig. He recognized the dark, curly hair of the man strapped to it. Head limply lolling side to side as the gurney was moved. He lunged into the back of the ambulance, ignoring the startled yells of the attendant who he half flattened against the supply cabinets inside.

 

He landed on his knees next to the gurney. "Starsk!...." He barked out, his hands as gentle as the name was not, releasing the straps and yanking up the blanket. Needing to see for himself, the extent of his partner's injuries. Ready and terrified he would see blood, wounds....Starsky was so pale, mumbling incoherently. Breathing. Thank ghod. Breathing. Hutch let out his own breath. No wounds. No blood.

 

"Hutchinson!" The roar of Captain Dobey barely registered. A second shout of his name had him lifting his head, a snarl fixed on his face, blue eyes anything but friendly, his body so filled with rage that it seemed far larger than possible. The paramedic scrambled back from that expression, the hunched menace, crawling to and stumbling out the open rear doors.

 

"Hutchinson! You aren't helping! He needs to go to the hospital, which isn't going to happen if you scare off the attendants." Capt. Harold Dobey stood at the bumper glaring at him. "Now get out, or stay out of the way."

 

"What happened to him?!" Hutch growled. Crouched over the mumbling form of his partner. Not about to entertain the porosal that he get out of the rig. They could drag him out. They could try anyway. His teeth were bared.

 

Dobey's eyes changed, then, filling with grief. His big hand closed on the pack of Polaroids stacked in the plastic evidence bag hidden deep in his pocket. Pictures that were in his custody, that he was not doing to entrust to anyone else. He never looked away from the furious blue, half mad gaze of his detective. "One of his neighbors noticed the screen was off his back window. She called it in, along with a story about maybe seeing someone carrying a body inside the apartment. The officers made a silent approach and found Starsky in bed, partly conscious and nude. The set up was pretty obvious. He was raped, son. Now let them take him to the hospital. He needs to see a doctor."

 

Hutch let out a groan. His hand found Starsky's head, stroked it. Tucked the blankets in tight. They should get him to the hospital. Why weren't they driving? He lifted his head. Stared right at the paramedic who was partly hidden behind Dobey.

 

"Why are you out there?" He barked. "Get in here! My partner needs a hospital!" His tone was not the ideal way to lure the young man back into the ambulance. Hutch felt his face start to redden with frustration.

 

Dobey put a ham-like fist on the young man's shoulder. "It's all right. Go ahead. Detective Hutchinson won't do anything to interfere with his partner's care. Will you Detective?"

 

Hutch snarled at him. Dobey pushed the reluctant attendant back into the ambulance. He closed the door and pounded on the side.

 

"Get out of here." He shouted the order, before turning to his own car and getting in. "Dickinson! Take care of Hutchinson's car. Run it over to his place. I don't want him driving it home from the hospital."

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

"If it wasn't for the presence of drugs," The arrogant young medical man was saying, "I would say that the sex was consensual. There is no trauma, no tearing, no blood. Nothing to signify that this is a rape. Are you certain your partner doesn't use drugs? Isn't homosexual?" His voice was bored, put out, as if the rape case was far less itneresting to him than it should be. A waste of his talents, his surgical skill. Almost as if he were disappointed Starsky didn't need to be stitched up.

 

Hutch stared at the pipsqueak for one incredulous second. Then he launched himself across the waiting room. Captain Dobey caught his blond detective as he went for the doctor's throat. "Hutchinson! Hutchinson!" He struggled to hold the large, unnaturally strong, wild man. More officers moved in to help.

 

"Take him outside. Let him cool off." Dobey told them. And Hutch, protesting, was dragged as gently as possible, out into the ambulance bay. The captain watched them go for a moment, gathering the tatters of his temper. Finally he felt he could face the startled man clutching Starsky's chart to his chest, without giving into the urge to strangle him.

 

Captain Dobey turned back to the doctor. "I want you off this case." He said quietly. "In fact, I want to talk to your supervisor. Now. You have a lot to learn about bedside manner and how to talk to the families of your patients."

 

His voice conveyed enough menace, even while the tone was completely reasonable, that the young man flushed and walked away without another word of his own. Harold Dobey shook his head. He didn't understand how someone who was smart enough to get through medical school, pass the boards and residency, could be so stupid. Naive. Unfeeling.

 

Well, he wasn't going to put up with it, especially not in this case. David Starsky was as close to him as his own son, Cal. So was Ken Hutchinson. Both men were going to need the best care he could find them. He had no illusions. Hurting one was hurting the other. Dave Starsky's rape was affecting Hutch as much as if he had been raped himself. If he wasn't very careful he was going to lose two detectives, two fine men, his best team. Part of his unofficial, extended family.

 

Captain Dobey saw the older man coming towards him and squared his massive shoulders. This doctor was going to start by getting a big reality check, a la Dobey. A cram course in Starsky and Hutch care and maintenance. And if he didn't get the message loud and clear, then there was no end of superiors Captain Harold Dobey was prepared to summon to this ER to get the right treatment for his men. Even if it took all night.

 

In fact, tomorrow he was going to get Edith here, just to make certain his wishes were being honored. In an argument with anyone over the needs of someone she loved, no one stood a chance of winning against Edith Dobey.


	11. Part 11

  
Author's notes: Hospital time.  


* * *

Starsky woke slowly, almost sweetly from the drug.

 

He heard conversations, loud ones, fading into whispers as he emerged to near consciousness, then drifted off, back into stupor.

 

He heard Hutch's voice, angry, low and harsh, with that tone that meant whoever was making him angry should back off, fast. He mumbled the warning, but knew it wasn't heard. Not loud enough, too tired. He rolled over on one side, dreamed.

 

He heard Dobey's voice. Loud and sharp, stern, a bellow, an angry bull. The voice that gave him pause every time he heard it. Again he tried to warn whoever was on the receiving end...again he felt too slow, too relaxed, too drained to succeed.

 

And strangers. He heard their voices. Quiet, stuttering, firm, placating, the whole gamut, and he knew Dobey was the cause. People talked to Dobey like that.

 

He felt warm. Comfortable. And apart from all the bustle that was happening around him. It had nothing to do with him. He wanted to sleep. The pillow was stiff, unyielding, crackling under his cheek, wrong. He didn't have pillows like that at home.

 

He focused on Hutch's voice. As long as Hutch was near he was OK. Then Hutch stopped talking and he worried, until he felt the touch on his forehead. The slightly rough texture, warm. Hutch.

 

"Husssssshhhh." He slurred, his tongue not working to well. He pushed up into the caress.

 

"Yeah, buddy," Hutch whispered gently, "I'm here." Stroking him gently, fingertips along his cheek..

 

"Husssshhhh. Sooo tired," He mumbled through numb lips.

 

"Yeah, babe, I know. Go ahead and sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up. I promise." Hutch wouldn't lie, Hutch loved him. He wouldn't lie, but....

 

"I don' wanna sleep." Starsky muttered stubbornly, trying to keep his fluttering lids open. And failing. "Don' trust 'em..can't sleep..." He made a supreme effort to sit up, swaying. Hutch eased him back down. "Wha' am I doin' here?" His tongue was rubbery.

 

"You can trust me. You trust me don't you Starsk? I'll be right here. When you wake up. I'll be here." His face was pressed against a blue shirt with little white buttons. It smelled like his partner.

 

Starsky shook his head, rolling his cheek over the big muscles under the shirt. "No' good enuff..." He licked his dry lips, sucked on the straw Hutch put in his mouth. Drank the cool water, swallowing it down. "No, Hushhh. Get in." He fell backwards against the crappy pillows, lifted the edge of the blanket.

 

"Starsk, I hate to tell you, I can't get in bed with you. This is a hospital." Hutch told him.

 

"You did before. When I was shot. You got in before. Fel' good. I was safe. Don' feel safe now." Starsky muttered, unhappily, focusing his sad, denim blue gaze on his best friend.

 

Hutch gulped. He hadn't been there. He hadn't stopped the rape. He told Starsky, he'd made the promise to himself that he'd be there to watch his partner's back...and he'd failed. Starsky hadn't been safe.

 

"Huuuusssshhhh?" Starsky called out plaintively, all motion stopping in a way Hutch instantly recognized. "I don' feel so good...." Hutch was reaching for the trash can before the words were finished. Starsky barely made it to the side of the mattress before vomiting into the wastebasket Hutch held for him. With his free hand Hutch pushed the nurse's call bell.

 

Starsky never reacted well to medicines. Painkillers, sedatives, they all made him throw up. What ever the man who had raped him had given him was no better. It didn't agree with Starsky at all. He heaved over and over into the can, his whole body writhing with the spasms.

 

Finally he fell back gasping on the bed, sweat running down his face. The nurse bustled into the room. A middle aged, motherly looking woman.

 

"Can I have some towels to clean him up, and a new gown, sheets." Hutch asked her. "And can you ask the doctor for something to settle his stomach, or he'll be throwing up all night?" She nodded and turned out of the room, reappearing with an armful of linens, and a basin she filled with warm water at the tap. He took the linen from her with thanks.

 

"I'll be back with his medicine," she told the tall blond man who had immediately begun stripping his friend and sponging him down with practiced, familiar ease. His touch was so gentle, she thought. Treating the ill man with the caring tenderness of a lover, or a parent. She felt she was leaving her patient in the best hands as she went to gather her syringe and the anti-emetic from the pharmacy.

 

A half hour later Starsky was warm and freshly washed, his bed changed, new blankets piled on, medicine administered. Hutch and the nurse stood at his bedside looking down at their completed work with satisfaction.

 

"Huuuusshhhh!" Starsky burbled from under his blanket. "Husshhhh, where are you? Get in here. Husshhh. 'M cold."

 

Hutch looked over and found the nurse looking at him her eyes speculative, knowing. He felt a blush rise in his cheeks. But his embarrassment wasn't enough for him to ignore what Starsky wanted. He shrugged.

 

"He hates being in hospitals. He feels better if someone is in bed with him." He tried to explain. The nurse eyed him even harder, her gaze narrowed. Then she looked over at the miserable lump laying under the blankets.

 

"Hushhhhh." Starsky called. His speech growing even more slurred. She nodded at Hutch.

 

"I'll pull the door to." She said, waggling a finger. "Sleeping only." She warned, taking no chances. "I mean it, I've seen it all young man. And once was more than enough."

 

Hutch's face flamed. "Yes ma'am." He said. Of course it would be sleeping only. Helping Starsky rest. Starsky turned at once towards him as he settled on the outside of the blankets, putting a long arm around his partner.

 

"Huuussshhh." Starsky said. He fell asleep with the smell of Hutch in his nose, his hand in his own loose grip.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

It was Edith Dobey who woke them when she entered. Harold Dobey her fearless husband and police captain had taken one look at the two men asleep in the same hospital bed and turned tail to wait outside in the corridor while his wife woke the detectives.

 

She hid a smile at her husband's reaction. Men! Shaking her head she set down her purse and walked to the window of the private room. She opened the drapes to let in the morning light.

 

Moments later it was a rather rumpled Hutchinson who stepped out into the corridor himself seeking his Captain. His hair was standing on end, it's disarray making is clean it was well past time for a haircut. At least that was what Captain Dobey thought. He nearly said it aloud.

 

"Hutchinson. How is Starsky doing?" Dobey asked, gruffly, trying not to think about where his detective had spent the night.

 

"He is awake and not sure what to believe. He doesn't remember anything about yesterday after falling asleep on his couch. Not coming to the hospital, or talking to me last night. He is not going to be able to offer any help finding this guy." Hutch ran a hand through his hair, flattening some of it, forcing more up into wild spikes.

 

"I wondered about that. No one else has had any more luck remembering. I'd hoped since he was trained to recall details he might..." The black man shook his head, his disappointment clear. "I want you to get down to the office, take a few hours to bring you files up to date on the rape case and the serial murders, too. Then pass them on to Simpson and Frey."

 

"You are pulling us off the case...Captain...." Hutch protested.

 

"You can stop right there Hutchinson. Starsky ~and~ you are to report to department psychiatrist as soon as the hospital releases him. You have an open appointment. Be there. If you aren't there by seven pm tonight I expect a call telling me why, and that is an order. The two of you are off duty until the psychiatrist gets back to me and clears you for duty. You understand me Hutchinson?" The low growl was not one to be argued with. Hutch nodded reluctantly. Dobey softened his voice.

 

"Listen son. I know you want to get out there and find the man who did this to your partner. But it is more important to make sure the two of you get the right kind of help first. He was assaulted, but I am not so stupid to think it didn't affect you, too. Take the time, son. You need it. Make sure Starsky takes advantage of the time, too." He clapped a huge paw on the other man's shoulder.

 

Edith chose that moment to throw open the door and call the men in from the hallway. Starsky was sitting up in the bed, freshly scrubbed and shaved, his riotous curls combed in some semblance of order. If the squint in his eyes was any indication, he also had a headache.

 

Hutch's heart swelled at the sight of his partner. Edith Dobey had fussed and cared for him like he was her own son. He stepped up to the petite black woman and kissed her cheek.

 

"Thank you." He whispered, embracing her gently. Her dark eyes were filled with understanding. Hutch was instantly grateful for her presence, the love and affection she had always extended to both him and Starsky. She was their surrogate mom in Bay City, both of their own mothers living all the way across the country. Hutch's in Minnesota, and Starsky's in New York.

 

He was never more grateful for her.


	12. Part 12

Dr Stephen Hunt was the lucky man. He came close to groaning when he saw the name of the officer he was seeing this afternoon. He'd encountered Dave Starsky before, during the mandatory sessions following officer involved shootings.

 

Seeing Starsky meant seeing Hutchinson. They would hang around his waiting room and office until both were taken care of. It explained why Captain Dobey had added a little pressure to get Dr. Hunt to be the consulting psychiatrist rather than one of the newer associates. There were definitely more wrong ways to deal with the pair than right ones. He sighed. Well, no help for it, now.

 

He heard them before he saw them. A low charged muttering that grew louder at the pair approached his office still hidden from his line of sight. Starsky was keeping up a running line of complaint, protesting that he didn't need to be here, just as he'd done every other time he'd come. And Hutch was trying to talk to him about other things.

 

As usual they were both chattering away at the same time, it was amazing they ever managed to communicate at all, the doctor thought, wryly. Shockingly, they did. At a level that was close to prescient, psychic. By osmosis...something like that. What one said sank into the others brain by some odd miracle.

 

"I've made a few notes. I need to get them to the detectives who are taking over our cases. It won't take long. I'll be right back to pick you up." Hutch was saying, his tone soothing and almost fattening, as he spoke, it was so rich. The tone he used for comforting, kids or women in distress, or, for his partner. Starsky.

 

"Why should they get our cases? I'm fine Hutch..." Starsky was complaining. Dr Hunt recalled that Starsky always wanted to get back to work. He never wanted to take any down time, sick time, or anything like that. When he did it always was because Hutch made him. Dobey had mentioned that in the past when Hunt had tried to put a background file on the partners together. Tried to understand the dynamic that was known as Starsky&Hutch. Reluctantly he grinned.

 

"Captain Dobey says you have to go. No other choice, babe. Come on, it'll be done before you know it. Then we can have Chinese take out..." Hutch's lovely voice continued to cajole his partner as they came down the hall.

 

Starsky eyed the stack of notes. "Hutch, it'll take ya all day to read that ta them. Ya can't call that a few notes. That's a whole library." He complained. He was leaning in towards his larger partner. Hutch was hovering.

 

Right about then the two men, the shorter of the two talking as much with his hands as with his mouth, came into view in the postage stamp sized waiting room. The taller leaning in over him, protective, the doctor noted.

 

Big. A handsome blond man, good looking in the way women went crazy for. With a smile that would charm the pants of them. Just as difficult a nut to crack in previous sessions Hunt had had with him, but in a whole different way. Polite, reserved, his quiet personality filling the room. Silent, until a question was asked, then he'd answer, giving the shortest answer possible.

 

The other man, not traditionally what would be thought of as handsome. But charismatic, absolutely charming. Also bull headed, and resistant to the dubious benefits of psychiatry, his opinion which he shared around without the least compunction or reserve. Where he was sent here, to psychiatry, he talked about everything but the reason he was in the office in the first place. Impatient and pretty much hell to work with in a therapeutic situation. He protested loudly during any counseling he was given. Gave reasons why it wasn't going to help, wasn't necessary.

 

Manfully Dr Hunt stifled his groan. The look on Starsky's face did not bode well for this encounter either. It was already mulish, already impatient. The bright smile he'd seen a few times in the past was absent.

 

Hutchinson was telling him to go ahead, go in, he'd be right back. Promising his partner tacos if he was good. Making a face as he offered the food, as if it were toxic. And David Starsky brightened for the briefest of moments, before grumbling again, that he really didn't need to be here, he should go with Hutch.....

 

Hutchinson went through the round of calming and soothing once more, infinitely patient, they left his partner to his fate.

 

With that, David Starsky, pouting and sullen, like an abandoned child entered the office. It went rapidly downhill from there.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

"I don't need counseling." David Starsky insisted, for the tenth time, his voice low and vehement. He was shredding the paper cup that had once held water. He was more than usually reluctant. He was actually bordering on hostile. Which was unusual. And significant.

 

The police psychiatrist scowled at him, but it was only a small scowl. He had to find the way to break through. The change in personality worried him. "Of course you need counseling, detective. You have worked with rape victims for years. You know the kind of trauma a rape causes in the lives of it's victims, their families..." He paused. Lecturing never worked with this man.

 

"I don't remember it. Not a thing. It is as if it never happened. You hear me? It never happened! Got it?" The man was unswerving. He finished shredding the cup and looked down at the heap of torn paper. He scooped it up and deposited it in the nearby trash can. Then he resumed his seat. looking around for another distraction.

 

The door to the private office opened for the second time since the session had begun. Stephen Hunt could see that the tiny waiting room beyond was empty of other clients. Only Detective Kenneth Hutchinson was visible in the doorway. The partner of the victim now seated on the couch, rigid with the indignity of having to be here.

 

"Starsk...." the big man began...his voice back int the velvet registered.

 

"Hutch!" The man seated on the couch exclaimed, happily.

 

"Detective, this is a private session, I am not sure...." the frustrated therapist said. Then he bit his tongue. Changed his tone, and approach. You could always reach Hutchinson if you appealed to him about his partner's needs. He began, "Your partner needs..."

 

"Hey! Ya got no reason to talk to him like that." The man on the couch protested, his thick brows lowered. "He can stay if I want him to. If he wants to. Hutch get in here."

 

A light, dim at first fired up in the psychiatrist's brain. It grew at amazing speed, erupting into an erroneous conclusion. He'd been taking care of these two men for years, and only now was he beginning to see the light. Damn, and it was so obvious, too. He should have put it together before.

 

"Certainly, Detective. It is perfectly acceptable to have...persons who are supportive with you if you feel the need..." Dr Hunt said as Hutch moved into the room and toward his beaming partner.

 

Starsky and Hutchinson were ignoring him entirely, the big blond already sinking onto the couch next to the somewhat smaller man, their thighs touching. They were absorbed in a rapid, well practiced visual examination of each other. Both very clearly assessing each other's well being. The therapist added up two and two and came up with six. Again.

 

"Yes. As I was saying, David, there are overt and hidden consequences to being subjected to rape. There are also more to deal with because you are a man, and an officer of the law." This time there was no protest, the dark haired man sat, apparently content now that his partner was in the room and seated next to him. Dave Starsky actually seemed to be listening to him.

 

"Talking about your experience will assist you in coping with it."

 

"I don't remember it. Not the first time and not the second...."

 

"First time?" Dr Hunt involuntarily looked down at his noted. There had not been a mention that the man had been the victim of rape before.

 

"Yeah, we figured it out, or Hutch did. Never reported it, I wasn't sure of it."

 

"It happened, Starsk." Hutch put in his two cents. The marks were the same as this time, same as the other guys we saw."

 

"When did this happen?" The stunned psychiatrist asked. They told him, and he noticed that they were moving closer. Not a lot closer, they were already practically sitting on each other. But they turned towards each other. Hutch seemed to get even larger, if possible, and Starsky put a hand on his partner's thigh, patted him, as if the blond man was the one who needed comforting.

 

"But you never thought to report it?"

 

"Like I told ya, I wasn't sure."

 

The psychiatrist turned to Hutchinson. "But you were sure?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Yet you didn't make him report it? Why not?" Hunt was astounded. For Hutchinson not to take the steps that were needed to protect his partner was extraordinary in his view.

 

"He wasn't ready." Hutch said, in a voice that was matter of fact and firm.

 

"I made him promise not to." Starsky added. Ah. There was the answer.

 

"But why?"

 

"Bein' a cop, ya gotta have a certain reputation, and ya' gotta keep it. Being a cop that got raped...that ain't the rep that is gonna protect me or my partner on the streets. So, I made Hutch promise."

 

Dr Stephen Hunt shook his head. These two man were a conundrum. It was sheer luck he had them here with him now. Police officers were always difficult to counsel. But it was what he'd chosen to do with his life. The men and women who worked to protect and serve the rest of the populace, faced the worst society had to offer, and they needed someone there who cared what happened to them. He'd chosen to be that man. He could help these men. And he would find a way, somehow, to do it despite every block they tossed in his way.

 

Re-energized he started again, his voice gentle and steady. He began getting the whole story, not just from David Starsky, but from Ken Hutchinson, too.


	13. Part 13

  
Author's notes: Home. Huggy's.  


* * *

"Dobey has given us two weeks off for the counseling. Maybe more, depends on if Hunt releases us. What do you want to do?" Hutch said as the second free evening in a row began. At first he'd felt strange when Dobey told him that both of them were going to take time off. He protested that he was fine he hadn't been the one who was assaulted. The wisdom of his captain's decision wasn't long in coming.

 

The first time he tried to leave Starsk alone, just to take his habitual run in the morning, he realized Dobey made the right choice taking them both off the duty roster. If he found it hard to leave his partner for an hour long run, he certainly couldn't work thinking of his partner alone. It was too soon. The bastard had attacked Starsky twice. That was not the usual modus operandi for any rapist. So either the man was losing his cool and escalating, or he wanted to be caught...or...he was obsessed with Starsky.

 

That thought chilled Hutch to the bone. If the asshole was obsessed he'd probably not be able to stay away. This time if the creep showed up, Hutch would be there at his best friend's side. And if the rapist wanted to take another shot at Starsky it would be the last thing he ever did. Hutch knew for the first time in his life, without a single atom of doubt, that if the man came back for Starsky, Hutch would not arrest him. He would kill him.

 

All the years he had worked rape cases, most rape murder cases, he had never lost his cool enough to cross the line. He'd wanted to teach most of the men a lesson, considered beating it into them, barely holding back a few times. This time...he was already across the line into dangerous territory. With no way and no desire to go back. The man who had hurt Starsky was a walking dead man.

 

Starsky was not showing any physical signs of trouble. No pain, no fatigue. Just a tendency towards slightly less energy, and was content to spend time draped over Hutch's couch. He was prone to drifting off in thought. The effects of the drug he'd been given, which was still a mystery, had otherwise worn off.

 

He was staying with Hutch, Hutch's apartment being the larger of the two, and not the scene of any crime. Hutch did not want Starsky back in his own apartment for a while, in fact, he preferred he not go back at all, rather get a new one in a safer locale. Or he could stay right here, with Hutch. Hutch didn't mind. In fact he liked the idea. He might find it less appealing in a few weeks or months, but right now he wanted Starsky where he could see him...and touch him, reassuring himself Starsky was here.

 

Hutch never minded having Starsky over. Since Starsky's second rape, he hadn't even given his own social life and the effect having a permanent roommate would have on it a thought. He was throwing his whole being into making sure his partner recovered. Even to the point of cutting off calls to his girlfriend, and the many more casual women who called both him and Starsky. Starsky showed no desire to talk to any of them. And Hutch gently but firmly asked them not to stop by yet.

 

And strangely, Starsky was soaking the Hutch's attention up. Starsky wanting to be touched, a shoulder brushing his arm, legs against legs while they watch the slim pickings on the late night cinema. Or, sometimes, holding hands, silent, absorbed in the feel of being safe, certain nothing could touch them. The first night home Starsky spent less than an hour on the lumpy sofa in Hutch's living room before waking in a terrified sweat and joining Hutch in his bed.

 

Hutch when he'd recovered from the initial surprise, noticed that the other man was drenched in a cold sweat, and got up to retrieve a wash cloth. He sponged his partner, dried him, covered him with the crisp clean cotton sheets and a blanket, and in a few moments after disposing of the cloth, climbed in beside him. Starsky had rolled over toward him without hesitation, thrown an arm and leg over him, burrowed his nose into Hutch's armpit and started snoring softly.

 

Hutch was surprised at the level of satisfaction and contentment that washed over him. He wasn't comfortable, he was a side sleeper usually, and laying on his back made it hard for him to drift off to sleep. But having Starsky close, and knowing he was safe more than made up for the minor discomfort, and for the oddity of trying to sleep with the crinkly feel of chest hair along the side of his own chest.

 

They spent literally every waking moment near each other. Hutch had noticed that when he took his shower the door to the bathroom, which he habitually closed, was open when he got out. And Starsky never bothered to pretend to close it for his own shower, propping it wide open. Hutch started to sit on the couch during his partner's ablutions after he noticed the other man stepping out of the shower to come to the bathroom door and look for his partner. They never had been shy with each other, so seeing a naked, dripping, curly headed Starsky didn't bother him at all. But it was playing havoc with his carpet. Sitting where he could be seen from the shower when Starsky opened the curtain was easier for both of them, for the carpet and used a lot fewer towels.

 

"I don't know. Take out? Movie? Must be something on TV." Starsky said, distracted. "Hutch, I don't need two weeks, I'm gonna go nuts with nothing to do but sit around." He was getting restless, which took a huge load off of Hutch's mind. He had been worried when the normally restless ball of energy that was his partner didn't want to leave the apartment. They'd stayed in except for grocery shopping and therapy sessions.

 

Sessions Hutch actually found interesting. Sessions during which Dr Hunt didn't even try any more to ask him to leave and give them privacy. With Hutch there, Starsky talked. Without him, Starsky complained. Worried. Debated the need for the therapy at all. Dr Hunt had gracefully conceded to Hutch the position Starsky seemed to want him to have. And unbeknownst to the two partners, had actually mentally slotted Hutch into the role of Starsky's spouse.

 

"I know, partner. Let's treat it like a vacation. Should make it easier to take. So...do you want to go dancing? To a film? To a restaurant? Just to get out?" Exertion would be good, if Starsky felt up to it. Burn off some of the energy. The restlessness. Take his mind off of things by meeting a few nice girls.

 

"No. I don't wanna go dancing." Starsky said firmly. Hutch raised a brow. Starsky loved to dance. It hardly mattered who was his partner. A girl or Hutch or even, once at a holiday party, he'd dragged Michaelson out onto the dance floor amid hoots of laughter. The other officer being a hell of a good sport about it, his face as red as Starsky's Torino, while Starsky did the bump and grind, dancing circles around him.

 

"We can call some girls over, share a bottle of good wine, just take it easy, Cathy..." Hutch offered, wanting to soothe the tiny agitation he noted at the mention of going out dancing. The curly head shook negatively well before he was done talking.

 

"No. I don't wanna see any girls, either. Don't want them touching me..." Seemingly upset at the admission, he got up and started pacing. While Hutch tried to deal with the clue Starsky had just thrown in his lap. Starsky, a hugger and a patter, always into kissing women, affectionate, didn't want them touching him. Starsky, who adored women, didn't want them to touch him. Hutch felt a tendril of fear deep down. For the first time he asked himself if Starsky was ever going to be alright.

 

"How about Huggy's?" Hutch asked when he could, Starsky not noticing the short pause, lost in his own thoughts.

 

Starsky perked up. "Yeah! I could use a good steak. Some of his special mashed potatoes." He enthused. And Hutch was so happy to see him excited, almost for the first time since the therapy sessions had begun, that he didn't say a word about all the cholesterol. If his buddy wanted a steak, he'd get him the biggest one Huggy had.

 

They were both going stir crazy after only two days at home, twelve more lay in wait.

 

Hutch drove, pulling up behind the club. It was still early, only eight in the evening, and there was plenty of parking. He climbed out, and waited for his partner to follow. Starsky got out more slowly. Hutch watched him look around, before lifting his nose and sniffing at the mouth watering smells coming from the kitchen.

 

"Oh, man, I can hardly wait!" Starsky said sniffing, too. They walked in the back.

 

"Just promise me you'll have a salad, too." Hutch begged his partner who seemed to have an allergy to eating vegetables of most descriptions.

 

"Ken! Dave!" The pretty, blonde waitress squealed when she saw them heading right for them arms out flung. Hutch didn't miss the instant look of panic that suffused Starsky's face, or the way he stepped behind Hutch's larger bulk. He intercepted Anita, accepting her hug with a forced laugh, lifting her feet up off the ground and stopping her in her tracks.

 

"None of that!" He manged to make his voice sound like he was teasing her, joking. "We're starving. There a booth we could have? And a couple of beers, honey?" He deflected her, feeling Dave up against his back, one hand braced at the small of Hutch's back, ready to move either way to avoid the unwanted embrace he at one time would have enjoyed.

 

Hutch turned as Anita headed off on her errand, looped a long arm around Starsky and led him further into the room, doing his best to look huge and intimidating. It worked, no one dared to bump into them with Hutch glowering. He even flexed a little, and felt silly. But, it was for Starsky he reminded himself. If it took Hutch keeping people at a distance for a while to get Starsky back to his old self, then Hutch would do it. He'd do any thing.

 

Hutch spied the booth Anita had nodded to, and slid Starsky into the bench seat on one side, following him in rather than sitting on the other side of the booth. His body completely shielded Starsky from any unwanted contact from the rest of the patrons in the room.

 

For the first time Hutch realized how tense his partner had been. Starsky had been afraid. Starsky let out a big breath, a gusty sigh, his body relaxing. Hutch pretended to study the menu. He couldn't see a thing, couldn't read through the tears in his eyes. Ghod. He couldn't stand that this had happened to Starsk.

 

"Hey this is a new menu," Starsky exclaimed, pouring over it.

 

Hutch nodded, unable to speak until he managed somehow to swallow the lump in his throat. It felt like he had someone's fist lodged there. Starsky looked over at him.

 

"You OK, buddy?" He asked his voice lowering.

 

"Yeah, fine." Hutch croaked out, hoarse, the best he could do.

 

"Shit. Blintz, why're you cryin'?" It was barely a whisper. He tried to turn Hutch's face towards him. Hutch resisted. "Don't." Starsky said. "Don't hide from me. Me and Thee, babe." He snaked an arm around the larger man, pulling their faces together. Seeing Huggy head the oblivious Anita off as she zoomed in on them, beers in hand. The slender black man was far more astute than most people gave him credit for. He stood over the table, setting their beers down.

 

"I'll be right back with your orders, my white brothers." Huggy said. "One Starsky Special for you. And a Hutch surprise for the Blond Bomber..." He left them alone, without another word. Starsky hugged Hutch tighter.

 

"You don't ever have to hide from me." He said.


	14. Part 14

  
Author's notes: Counseling, and assumptions.  


* * *

Dr. Stephen Hunter flipped through the notes from the last few sessions to refresh his memory. Much to his astonishment, as long as Dave Starsky and Ken Hutchinson were together during the counseling sessions, progress was honestly being made. Slowly but steadily.

 

It was more than he'd hoped for given the copious, scathing, discouraging notes other therapists had left in the records regarding the two men individually. Resistant was about the nicest term used to describe them. He wasn't a vain man, and he knew it was pure luck that he had stumbled on the formula to get David Starsky talking where all the other doctors had failed to lesser or greater extents.

 

Dave was talking about what had happened, he still didn't remember any of it, but he talked about how the idea of it made him feel. It made his skin crawl to think about it. The rapist doing that to him, to any man, forcing him to have sex. How it felt to be a tough male cop who had been sexually assaulted, now that it was widely known. What he expected from his colleagues.

 

He had been raped. That much of an admission, given the history of the two men with past therapy, mandatory therapy in all cases, was a breakthrough. Of course Starsky still expressed doubt every now and again that it had happened. His expression going little boy peevish, sulky. But Hunter expected that. Mood changes. Par for the course.

 

Hunter had given thought to how to begin this next session. One of the subjects that wasn't dealt with yet was sex, aside from the rape itself. He felt it was time to bring it up. He needed to know if there was any progress in that arena. Was Dave having sex with his partner? Was he thinking about it? Or was he avoiding it, the subject and the act? Was he avoiding sex, physical contact, or was he open to it? Normal sexual relations was part of healing. Perhaps not yet, but as soon as he was ready.

 

There were many responses a rape survivor might display. One was being completely unresponsive to sex, actively avoiding it, sometimes to the point of refusing all physical contact, feeling invaded by even casual touching. Then there was the other extreme. Becoming promiscuous, having sex indiscriminately. Or any permutation in between the two.

 

Dave Starsky wasn't avoiding all physical contact. He was very cozy with Hutchinson even in front of Dr. Hunter. Affectionate and comfortable with the other man. So, had they already resumed their sex life? Was he heading more towards the other extreme? Was he taking on multiple partners? It was Hunter's job to find out if there had been a change in the sexual pattern of the two men, and if so, if it was harmful to one or both of them. And to offer help if such was the case. If he could.

 

Honestly he knew very little about the mechanics of homosexual sex. He hoped details would not be necessary. He'd have to look into a therapist who was more familiar with homosexuality than he was. Discreetly. If it came to that.

 

The two men were very careful about the images their fellow officer's had of them. Hunter of course had heard it all.

 

"Can't keep their hands off of each other." Said with a wry grin and a wink.

 

"Doesn't mean anything." Tolerant expressions.

 

"That's just the way they are." Affectionate head shake.

 

"Starsky and Hutch." Exasperation, but not anger. An extra eye roll from Minnie.

 

"Me and Thee." That one had been the most telling to him. It seemed to truly describe the men he'd met. Me n' Thee.

 

Given Hunter's new realization the two men were a couple it was a good thing they would both be here, and he didn't have to ask for Dave to bring his intimate partner in later. That was often awkward with men. They were very reluctant to have the woman in their lives around to hear what had happened to them, or to discuss their sexual relationships. And if Hunter hadn't known about Starsky and Hutchinson, it would have been doubly awkward to discover their unconventional relationship abruptly. But Hutchinson, Hutch David called him, had been in on the sessions from the beginning. He knew what had happened to his partner, and their relationship seemed to all appearances to be intact.

 

Hunter had great hopes this would mean talking about sex wasn't going to be more difficult than anything else so far. He did wonder if he should bring it up to Dave first, in a separate session. But given the way Dave clammed up emotinally and refused to stay on subject unless his partner was around in the same room, it probably wasn't worth the time.

 

Starsky started complaining almost immediately if Hutchinson wasn't seated next to him. He treated the taller man like a touchstone. Taking small liberties, holding his hand, leaning against him, taking the water out of his hand drinking from the same glass. All the little things very close couples might do. Habits the two of them had obviously developed during the course of their partnership. Predictably it calmed him to practice them. Gave him a sense of normalcy. That was invaluable in any therapy, putting your patient at ease.

 

Decided on the matter he closed the file and settled back with his morning coffee, contemplating the upcoming encounter. Fifteen minutes. Then he'd have them here. He found himself profoundly curious as to the way it was going to go with these two very unusual men. He'd never had a chance to counsel an openly gay couple in the police department. Nor individual detectives who were gay either. This was a first for him. As far as he knew.

 

If Kinsey were to be believed however, some of the men he'd talked to had been homosexual, or at least bisexual. But closeted. Not open about their feelings and desires. Afraid of the backlash if the information got out. He leaned back in his chair thinking about that. It was a damn shame, he thought, that prejudice was so strong.

 

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

 

Starsky was almost jovial, chatting from the moment he entered the office, Hutch looming behind him. Starsky had been the one to accept the offer of coffee and to pour himself a cup, while steeping a bag of herbal tea in a second mug for his blond partner.

 

His demeanor was relaxed, confident and friendly. He sat on the couch and answered the preliminary greetings and inquiries amiably, making room for Hutch to sit next to him, and patting the cushion when the blond had looked at one of the chairs instead. Hutchinson had obeyed the unspoken order without hesitation, seating himself with obvious satisfaction. Then it was time to move on the the subject Hunter had decided should be addressed.

 

"One of the hardest things a rape victim has to deal with is a return to normal sexual relations." Hunter ventured after the men had settled. "Sex is threatening, or not interesting to the victim, or even repellent some times for a long while after the attack. Which can put a strain on the primary relationship, the primary source of support for the survivor. Which in turn can make the victim feel misplaced guilt."

 

They looked at him, the dark haired man, and the blond, both with wary eyes, gone very still where they sat, Hutchinson's eyes far more wary, as if he suspected he might not want to be here for this. As if it were too private even for him. He shifted in his seat next to Starsky on the couch, as if to stand, clearing his throat.

 

The hard hand of his partner clapped down on his knee before he could move more than an inch, before he could speak to excuse himself. The fingers flexed, digging in and Hutchinson winced. But he stayed put.

 

"Not on your life, partner." Dave Starsky muttered under his breath, intensely suspicious of the direction of this conversation. "You ain't goin' nowhere. Sit." And with a sigh, Hutchinson did ease back, his eyes uncomfortable but resigned.

 

"I'd like to remind you that anything that we talk about in here is completely private. No one has access to the files, only to my report of them. I am very careful about what information I include and exclude." Stephen offered the reassurance once Hutchinson was settled again. Starsky's hand still on his leg gripping him tightly. "Nothing of a personal nature is going to be made public. Certainly nothing of a sexual nature. I hope you know that."

 

The confusion on both faces was so alike it was almost comical, their features looking nothing at all alike otherwise. Hunter flashed on the comment that the longer couples were together the more they resembled each other. Certainly expressions becoming so similar was one way that might happen. The detectives exchanged a look, each man trying to piece together what wasn't being said, looking for clues from the other.

 

Then like the clouds parting, Dr Hunter saw realization cross Dave Starsky's expression. He looked dumbfounded for an instant, as if he'd been hit in the gut by a sucker punch. Then he did something entirely unexpected. He giggled. His partner turned to stare at him, mouth gaping.

 

"Starsk? You all right buddy?" Hutchinson asked carefully, lifting his hands to take Starsky's shoulders in his big hands. His touch was tender, gentle, protective. His expression began to turn to distrust when he looked back at Hunter. He was totally focused on protecting his partner, and right now, the doctor knew Hutchinson wasn't sure Hunter was good for Starsky. Not if Starsky was becoming hysterical under his care.

 

"Hey, Hutch." Starsky reached out and took his hand, looking directly into his best friend's eyes. His voice was silky but held a teasing edge. He entwined their fingers. Settled their joined hands high on his own thigh, intimately close to the center of his body. Hutch's pale blue eyes widened. But only for an instant. Then they narrowed.

 

"'M fine....partner." Starsky said softly, a goofy grin making it's sudden appearance on his face. It was less than a second before comprehension flooded across the bigger man's face, and with it a tide of crimson all the way up to the tips of his ears.

 

"I don't think..." He began, addressing the psychiatrist sitting across from them, chill dripping from his tone. His partner stopped him, the grin on his face huge, almost maniacally amused.

 

"Babe." Starsky murmured, tucking their clasped hands more firmly between his own thighs. Up close and personal. "It's fine. I'm fine. All right?" They were back to their silent communication. Then Hutch shrugged, the remnant of his blush seeping away. Yet, Dr Hunter noted, despite his obvious embarrassment, his discomfort with acknowledging their intimate relationship, he made no attempt to remove his hand from that of his partner. Nor to distance himself. It wasn't being close to Starsky he was uncomfortable with. Nothing was going to make him abandon the other man. Hunter felt encouraged by that.

 

"I think we are at a point where we should discuss sex." Dr Hunter said a moment later. Starsky grinned. Hutchinson came close to rolling his eyes after he caught sight of the grin.

 

"I know it is very personal, but it is also an important part of healing." He continued. "I also know it is private, more so perhaps for the two of you. Homosexuality or bisexuality are not tolerated as well as they should be. I do assure you that nothing you say, nothing we discuss will become public knowledge."

 

"Starsk." Hutchinson's utterance of his partner's name was half-strangled.

 

"Aw, blintz, don't be such a worrywort." He scolded, mildly. Starsky's grin was as broad as the Cheshire cat's.


	15. Part 15

Hutch waited until they were well out of the doctor's earshot before he spoke. "Why did you do that?" He hissed into his partner's ear, taking care to keep his voice down too low to be overheard. To do that he had to lean close because there were others all around them.

 

People were walking by, officers and civilian employees, no one blinked to see the two of them hovering together closer than any other two men in the building would dare. They seemed to expect it. Though, Hutch frowned, they would react far differently if it weren't him and his partner, S&H, they were observing in a clinch. Or near clinch.

 

He was bent forward, Starsky's shoulder half against his own, half pressing into his chest, those tousled curls brushing his own cheek. If he didn't want people to think he and Starsky were gay lovers he should back up put a little distance between them. Act like he had a concept of personal space. But he couldn't. The idea of pulling away, of putting distance between himself and David Starsky was painful. He'd rather get shot in the foot.

 

Or be gossiped about. He clenched his jaw and glared. If they dared.

 

Hutch raised his head, noting the unsurprised glances men and women were sending their way as they walked around him and Starsky. Damn. People expected him and Starsky to be like this. Touchy feely. It wasn't just the Doctor. Everyone thought they were gay. Accepted it as fact. The thought hit him square between his eyes. The problem was, what to do about it? Give up touching his partner? Never, not an option. Dave Starsky was the best friend he'd ever had. Would ever have. He wasn't going to change a thing. He was going to be exactly the person that Starsky needed him to be.

 

As far as changing minds...he could go around the station telling each person they were not "like that", explaining that he and his partner weren't gay. Making a verbal defense of their heterosexuality? A waste of time. Half the men and women wouldn't believe it. The rest wouldn't care one way or the other, it just wasn't something they wasted time thinking about, and those few who did care, who hated them because of what they thought he and Starsk were...he growled low in his throat. Let them say just one thing, just one.... He unconsciously flexed and missed the widening eyes of the secretaries who were passing just then, all three of them stumbling into each other, eyes goggling..

 

That left a single option...one or both of them getting a girlfriend and getting married having a yard full of kids, flaunting their lifestyle, establishing their bona fides beyond question...and hadn't they already been doing that for years?

 

Before Starsky's shooting they'd both dated almost every young and attractive woman they met. And it hadn't stopped the rumors, or altered the perceptions of the people who worked with them, saw them everyday. Hutch closed his eyes. They were screwed. NO one would believe they weren't gay, when they so obviously were...even if they weren't...the circular nature of his thoughts were making him dizzy.

 

Starsky giggled when Hutch's nose slid over his ear, he couldn't help it. He lifted his shoulders and let the shiver wash over him, not thinking for a second about where they were. Who was around. That meant less than nothing. He went back to the original question, his denim blue eyes meeting Hutch's, sparkling with mirth. "He was just so sure, Hutch. I couldn't break it to him he was wrong. What a hoot!"

 

But Hutch didn't find it so funny. He was still wondering what to do about his new found awareness of just what people thought of him and of Starsky. Were there consequences he and his partner were going to have to face?

 

"He thinks we are homosexuals. Involved in a sexual relationship. It could get us fired if any one in administration gets wind of it." Hutch growled, more worried about their safety when they got back out on the street. What if they needed back up? Would it come? Would it be late? He frowned while Starsky grinned up at him.

 

They were still in the precinct, walking through the halls, Starsky trying not to laugh out loud and failing spectacularly, finally tears streaming down his face as he laughed. "Oh, ghod Hutch, you should lissen to yourself. Ya sound like some Midwestern preacher or somethin'. All consistentipated."

 

"Constipated." Hutchinson corrected him, surprisingly prissily for such a big, masculine man. "You mean constipated. And I am not. I mean I don't."

 

"Hee hee. Not constipated?" Starsky tried to hold back at the outraged look on his partner's face and failed, chortling. Hutch looked around and saw people were noticing, were looking at them now, with more interest than usual. Not a few were grinning back, having overheard the constipated remark. Hutch flushed, his blond coloring not hiding any of the rush of blood to his cheeks. He guided Starsky around a corner and into a quieter area of the building.

 

"SHhhh." He tried to hush the other man. "I for one don't want it to get around that I am gay." Which was a silly thing to say because he'd already decided that people thought he was. Starsky stopped laughing. His face was still bright with laughter, and Hutch had to admit it was good to see, but his eyes were suddenly serious, concerned, solicitous.

 

"Are you? Gay?" Starsky swallowed the laughter and became serious in a flash. "I didn't mean to be insensitive, partner...." He put his hand on Hutch's arm, squeezed gently.

 

"You know, it doesn't matter to me if you are. You are still my best friend. It's just I've seen ya out with so many girls, Hutch. How was I supposed ta know? I guess that means yer bisexual. Ya like men and women?" He tried to apologize but Hutch interrupted him, throwing up his hands.

 

"No. I am not gay. I meant I don't want people to think I am. When I am not." Hutch whispered fiercely, rolling his eyes, exasperated. Part of Starsky's charm was how literal he was, how direct. He didn't hide how he felt. Just came right out and said it. It was one reason this damn rape thing, the assault, was so hard to deal with. Starsky didn't want to talk about it. He would rather not talk, dismiss it from his mind. Not deal with it. As if it hadn't happened. Very un-Starsky. Hutch would be fine with that, if he really believed that was best for his partner. But he was afraid it wasn't. According to all the experts it wasn't. Someday the memory might come back. Then what?

 

Besides, he wanted to catch the son-of-a-bitch who had done it, who had raped Starsky not once but twice. His hands collapsed into huge, clenched fists. To do that they needed information, clues, evidence. All of which were sadly lacking despite the taunting pictures they had that showed the rapist with his victims. Though hardly enough of him to be recognizable. Unless he'd be so kind as to walk around the streets of Bay City naked. But Starsky was talking again and Hutch forced himself to let the anger go, for now, and to listen.

 

"Hate to break it to you, partner, with all the ladies you date, if they still think ya are gay...then nothin' will change their minds." Starsky's sentiment so closely echoed his own that Hutch stared at him, at a loss for words. It was true. No one was going to believe he...they were straight. Probably not even Harold Dobey. Not after catching Hutch in Starsky's hospital bed twice now.

 

"Doesn't that bother you? That they think...." He asked the question coming out gentle, not accusatory at all. His hand waved back and forth between the two of them. Starsky absently caught the waving hand and pressed it against his belly. Warm. Hutch was instantly aware of that. Hard, flat, but rippled with muscle that Hutch felt easily through the striped, button-down shirt. Starsky was in great shape, the best in his life if Hutch had it right. The work outs and running had been good for both of them. But, being strong and in good shape...it hadn't kept some head-case from raping his best friend. If he could just get his hands on that man....his fingers curled. Once again Starsky distracted him from his growing rage.

 

"What, that people think I'm in love with ya? Naw. I do love ya. That they think we're bumping uglies? A little." He shrugged, the motion incredibly eloquent, yet abbreviated. It meant everything and nothing. An answer and not one at all. "But we can't go around worrying what other people think all a th' time, blondie." Starsky said patiently, still holding Hutch's hand against his belly. Comfortable. Warm. Friendly. Starsky.

 

"Bumping uglies?" Hutch grimaced at the phrase. Not how he wanted to picture making love. With a man or a woman. And now he couldn't get the vision out of his mind. "Starsk." He half-whined. Sheesh. He shook his head. Starsky's stomach chose that moment to rumble hungrily. Starsky grabbed his arm up closer to the elbow, pushing Hutch's palm harder into his belly.

 

"Did ya hear that?" Starsky asked, plaintively. He frowned unhappily. "Come on, blintz, I'm hungry. I thought ya promised ta feed me. Whad'da ya want to eat? There is this new Mexican place...." he began, excitedly. "Minnie was tellin' me about it..."

 

"Starsky! Hutchinson!" Dobey's voice roared down the hallway. Hutch peeked out around the edge of the hall, how had Dobey....then he realized Starsky had pushed him partly into the hall. And how many other six-foot plus blond detectives were there? Of course Dobey had recognized him, even from the back.

 

Starsky's head popped around the corner, eagerly, shoving hutch even further into the main hall. He missed working. His vibrated with energy, responding to the tone. "Yeah, Cap'n." He answered for the both of them.

 

"Get in here!" Shouted Harold Dobey. He held an 8x11 manila envelope in his ham-like fist. His face was scowling, displeased, and sweaty.

 

Hutch felt his gut sink. Oh shit. No. He knew what that envelope meant, he knew what was in it. He prayed he was wrong, wanted to be wrong. Begged to be wrong. He thought he was going to be sick, unable to look up, his gaze stuck on the envelope crushed in his captain's dark-skinned hand.

 

Starsky dragged him down the hall like an excited puppy. Hutch didn't want to go.


	16. Part 16

  
Author's notes: ....revelations.  


* * *

Hutch followed his partner inside Dobey's office. His face was grim, quite unlike the excited face of his companion, who looked ready to take on the world, dark blue eyes sparkling, eager. As much as he enjoyed Hutch's company, Starsky had been bored staying at home, yet twitchy when they went out. Hutch through careful observation figured out what was bothering his dark haired partner.

 

Any time they went somewhere where they were known, and where there was the possibility of Starsky being touched, the other man shied away. Being as Starsky was so outgoing and had made friends with just about every shop keeper and restaurant owner, waitress, clerk and secretary in his neighborhood and Hutch's, that limited the number of places they could go without happy, bouncy young ladies, and motherly women, trying to get up close and personal with their favorite Detective. Hugs and kisses, whether motherly or other, usually his partner's duly accepted tribute, now bothered him, and he tried, unsuccessfully to avoid the droves coming at him.

 

Hutch managed to intervene on some occasions, but not all. And when he thought about it, he knew Starsky was going to have to get over his reluctance to touch and be touched. Hugs were the first step to him getting back to a normal sex life. Just like the doctor said. That was important in healing. Whether or not Starsky had conscious recall of his two rapes, his body had somehow internalized them. There was no other explanation why the normally hands-y man would pull back so hard and thoroughly, trying mightily to avoid any physical contact. Being hugged by his many casual admirers would do him good. Get him back on the road to healing.

 

Predictably Starsky didn't like it much. But he didn't run screaming either. Hutch had to fight down his instinctive drive to protect his partner. Through sheer will, he succeeded in only stepping in when the hugs became more serious on the ladies part, or when Starsky looked like he was about to panic. Then Hutch would cut him out of the herd of females and whisk him off to safety.

 

When Dobey's bellow came thundering down the hall, Starsky had pounced on it. Quivering like an ecstatic mutt getting his ears scratched just right. Hutch could almost see his tail wag. Starsky wouldn't stop dragging at him to hurry him along until they were in the Captain's office and Hutch was seated in the big chair in front of the desk. Starsky himself perched on the arm of the chair ignoring the second one where he could have seated himself, alone.

 

Hutch wasn't happy being called in here. He could tell it wasn't something good, emphasized by the thwapping of the envelope against the big man's thigh. He glared at the bulging manila container, wishing it would just disappear.

 

Hutch couldn't help but wonder why they were being called in when both were still on enforced leave. But he also wasn't about to question it it there was the slightest chance they were going back to work. Hutch regained his feet and reluctantly took the envelope Dobey extended to him.

 

Starsky sprang up and stood twitching with impatience next to the water cooler, waiting for the big blond to sit back down. Then, as he had a thousand times before, he sat back down on the arm of Hutch's chair, leaning in close. Hutch had to fight the emotion that crept up on him at the simple motion, one so familiar to him it literally cried out "Starsky" to him. He struggled against the urge to slip an affectionate arm around the slim hips and hug the curly haired man to him. Yeah, Dobey would sure appreciate that, two of his detectives cuddling in his office. Hutch could imagine the pained look that would cross over the older man's dark features.

 

"What's up, Cap'n?" Starsky piped up, pawing gently at the envelope Hutch still hadn't opened. Hutch felt his body quivering with pent up energy where they leaned together. Starsky's mind was fully engaged. And Hutch knew Starsky shouldn't be at home "recovering". He should be working, channeling all that formidable energy in a constructive direction. Not trying to wrack his brains for details of his rape. Details Hutch had just come to understand would never be recalled.

 

It wasn't that Starsky was suppressing them. Hutch had come to accept Starsky never was aware of any of it. He could try as hard as he might, and there would not be any revelation. Whatever drugs the rapist used...they had done more than suppress the memory, they had eliminated it. The rapist would not be caught via victim testimony or identification. The clever bastard had seen to that. They would have to use other means. Find evidence, wait for the man to slip up. And be there, ready to catch him when he did.

 

Hutch balled his fists, then forced himself to concentrate on what Captain Dobey was saying. The manila envelope that he'd partially crushed in his fist held stiff paper, stiff enough that it resisted being crushed. Photographs. Hutch was certain. He had to get rid of it. Holding it made his skin crawl. He tossed it back onto Dobey's desk, and wiped his fingers on his pants leg. The envelope lay on the corner of the black man's desk. Malignant. Hutch wished he could burn it to a crisp along with the pervert who was taking the pictures of his victims and sending them on to the police department.

 

Dobey cast a sympathetic look at the two of them sitting. Then his face hardened as if he was steeling himself up to do an unpleasant duty. He spoke, voice a deep and almost embarrassed rumble. He honestly hated having his detectives at a disadvantage. And the pictures...well...he hated them and what they represented. But they had to be taken in as evidence, he couldn't with hold them this time. He wanted Starsky and Hutch to be the first and hopefully, last detectives to see them.

 

"Doctor already said that in his opinion showing you these won't do any harm. He is very happy with the progress you are making." Dobey seemed as if he couldn't believe a shrink was telling him such things about one of the dynamic duo, who all other psychiatrists had despaired of. He continued speaking gravely. "Tell me if you disagree, they aren't pretty. And they are damn personal. I have to warn you ahead of time, there are pictures of you as well as of another young man I haven't seen before. Perhaps a new victim. Or an older one. I'm sorry Starsky, Hutch, I wish to ghod I didn't have to let you look at these." Dobey reddened, and Hutch paled. Starsky went very still. Frozen on the arm on the chair, like a deer in the headlights.

 

Then suddenly he moved. He was the one who responded, Hutch looking ill, said nothing. Starsky's jaw clenched. He held out his hand. "Let me see 'em." He growled. Dobey looked into his eyes for several long beats, then he picked up the envelope and handed it over. He got up from the desk and walked over to the doors of his office locking first one then the other as the dark haired man tore into the envelope, not caring that he shredded it.

 

He spilled the contents into Hutch's lap. Hutch thought he was going to throw up. On top was a picture of a young, slender man, eyes dulled with drugs, legs spread, arms limp as the man they'd come to recognize by his back fucked him. Starsky rifled through the pile. Picking up each, looking at it, letting Hutch look, then dropping it back into it's ravaged manila home. They went through the entire stack, slowly and methodically.

 

The first picture of Starsky sent a wave of emotion through Hutch. Seeing him naked, vulnerable, his skin so white in the unnaturally bright photographic lighting. Seeing those hands on him, as if they had any right, as if the man felt he owned Starsky. Hutch felt murderous. He felt repelled. He ached. He was sure he was going to vomit.

 

"Hutch." Starsky mumbled under his breath, trying to reach his partner without alerting Dobey there was a problem. Hutch had gone stiff as stone, rigid, color racing into his face until he was crimson with fury. Starsky leaned in, trying to hide Hutch from Dobey and succeeding only because the older man, their Captain and friend had turned away to give them what privacy he could. But at the sound of the urgent whisper he turned back and saw what he'd been afraid of. He'd known it would be Hutch who had the most trouble with the pictures.

 

"Hutchinson." Dobey snapped, gaining his feet again. The blond was swaying as he sat, on the verge of collapse.

 

"Breathe, Hutch. Ya gotta breathe, blondie." Starsky murmured, going down on his knees in front of his partner. He waved away their captain. "I got him." He didn't look away from the burning blue eyes.

 

Dobey didn't look convinced, but he halted his advance.

 

"They're just pictures Hutch. Evidence. Nothin' else. Don't think of 'em as anythin' else, babe. They are gonna help us catch this creep. An' that's good." He said. Low and even.

 

He held the pictures in his hands and told himself they were not personal, they had nothing to do with him, or his life. They were only evidence. Just evidence. And they would lead him to the son-of-a-bitch who was doing this. Who was messing up people's lives in one of the worst ways he could think of.

 

Hutch looked down at him, blue eyes bleak, a deep, abiding horror lurking in their depths. And Starsky knew he had to convince Hutch, even more than he had to convince himself. He reached up, cupping Hutch's cheek, heard Dobey grunt but wasted no time turning around. Dobey would just have to cope. Starsky wasn't going to let Hutch suffer to keep Dobey comfortable.

 

"Somewhere in this pile of pictures, is somethin' that is gonna help us catch him. I got a feelin', partner. So we can't afford not to look at 'em." Then he turned his full attention on the horrible subject matter. "Can I use your desk, Cap'n? I need t' lay these out. Get a good look at 'em all."

 

"Be my guest." Dobey replied, his tone gruff. Relieved that Starsky was back on his feet, no longer kneeling between Hutch's long legs. Much as he loved them, and he did, they were like adopted sons to him, if they were more than close friends he didn't want to know about it, and he certainly didn't feel up to seeing it played out in front of him, in his own office.

 

Determined to be objective, David Starsky walked over to the big desk while Dobey cleared it. He focused on setting out the pictures in some semblance of order, first by separating them into stacks of himself, and the other man. He blinked when he was almost done. Hutch came up beside him as he went very still.

 

"What is it?" Hutch asked, worried. He put a hand on the small of Starsky's back, steadying him.

 

"These aren't just of me and some other guy." Starsky pointed. "These two look alike, but see here, this one you can see he's got a mark on his leg. A birth mark. Not big, but...and see, his hair is curlier. There are two other guys. Me an' two other guys." He rummaged through the stacks again, separating them into three stacks, instead of the original two.

 

Hutch bent down, his cop's mind now engaged. Allowing him to look and not feel his gut roil. Evidence. Impersonal. He could do it now, do what he had to. Now that Starsky had pointed out the differences, he saw it, it was obvious. Dobey grunted unhappily. Two new young men violated. This was not good.

 

Starsky lifted one picture of himself, Hutch felt his world tilt, then stubbornly right itself. Starsky pointed.

 

"This here, look, no bruises, Hutch. But this one," He lifted a second, "...the bruises are old." So the pictures of him were also from two different times. They'd already known about that being true. But Dobey raised his brows.

 

"Hutchinson?" He barked. "Starsky." What aren't you telling me?" He growled.

 

Starsky didn't look up, as he answered the question. "I wasn't raped," he forced himself to go on after a hard swallow, "I wasn't raped once, Cap'n, I was raped twice. Two times this pervert had a hold a me. Not one." His hands busily sorted until there were four neatly squared piles on Dobey's desk.

 

Dobey was speechless. Hutch made a sound, as if he'd been gut shot. Dobey glanced at him, at how the big man stood, arms extended, braced on the edge of his desk. He held a photo in his hand, looking down at it. Pale as milk. All the golden handsomeness gone stark, brittle.

 

"Starsky!" Dobey warned. "He's going down..." He moved, trying to get there in time to catch Hutchinson. But Starsky was turning even before his warning, that sixth sense he shared with his partner kicking in.

 

He had Hutch in his arms and lowered to the floor in seconds. He settled Hutch's head in his lap. Hutchinson spread out took up almost all of the floor in front of the desk. His huge shoulders were shaking. Starsky petted him, gently, murmuring. "Hutch, Hutch." In one of the most tender voices Dobey had ever heard.

 

"Can ya give us a minute, Cap'n?" The dark haired man asked, voice quiet, but vibrating with tension.

 

Dobey nodded jerkily. "Does he need...." He began, even as he headed fro the door. Grateful to be invited to give the men some privacy. It was too intimate, the way Starsky held his partner, too personal to be witnessed.

 

Starsky shook his head. "Nope. No ambulance. He just needs me. I'll take care of him." He was stroking the faintly curling tendrils of hair at the blond's temple. "Just need a few minutes to talk t' him. He'll be fine."

 

Harold Dobey left his office, closing the door carefully behind him, before collapsing into a chair into the detective's bullpen. He hated this case with a passion. The only case that had been more personally painful was the death, the gruesome murder of his own partner, years ago. He swiped at his perspiring face. He'd just sit here and wait for one of his men to come out and get him. He had to believe they would be OK.

 

That they would take care of each other like they always had.

 

Inside the office Hutch stirred, blinking up at the concerned, affectionate face of his best friend. He looked around, puzzled and a little alarmed to find himself on his back on the floor. But Starsky's warm, tender smile comforted him, reassured him.

 

"Starsk?" He questioned.

 

"Feeling better, Blintz? Gonna tell me what happened?"

 

"What do you mean....?" Hutch frowned. Then it came back to him. He snapped upright, glancing around the floor frantically. He located the picture and grabbed it. He shoved it into his friend's startled grasp.

 

"Look here." He pointed. "I know that isn't yours. When was the last time you used your uniform?" 

 

Starsky looked down, mouth pressed into a grim line as he saw what his partner had seen. Folded neatly in the corner of the picture was a police uniform, hat perched on the top. He checked quickly, it was a photo of himself. In his own apartment. His own uniform was in the back of his closet, covered in plastic from it's last trip to the dry cleaners. The uniform wasn't his.

 

Hutch snarled. His face consumed with fury...and with an excited determination. "This guy is a cop, Starsk. And now we know it."

 

Starsky nodded. "Jeez." He said, incredulous. "A cop is doing this? Someone we work with?" Someone he knew, someone he'd spoken to, maybe shared lunch with, or backed up on a call, someone who he may have protected, risked his own life to keep safe, someone he'd been willing to kill to protect....had been the man who raped him.


	17. Chapter 17

Hutch woke with an unexpected weight draped across his chest. He blinked, looking out into the dim light of his bedroom, trying to remember when Cathy's flight had gotten in. The information kept eluding him. He groaned, sighed and turned towards the warmth, the coverlet tangling around his legs as he moved. His arms stole around the body next to him, but only loosely, lazily, he was too far into the languor of sleepiness to do more, feel more yet. Until it occurred to him Cathy didn't feel quite right. It wasn't Cathy, was it?

 

Paradoxically, his arms tightened instead of pushing the form away, drawing it nearer, gently enfolding the strong body next to him. It was less than a second before he knew with absolute certainty that whoever was in bed with him, it wasn't his girlfriend. He came close a second time to sitting up and shoving the person away, when it hit him. The scent that was his partner.

 

Starsky. Warm, sleepy, and as cuddly as an octopus, his raspy chin tucked into Hutch's bare chest. He seemed to have arms and legs everywhere and all of them wrapped around Hutch. Or otherwise intruding into Hutch's personal space. Which didn't make Hutch mad at all.

 

Starsky was the only guy he had no barriers with. Even Huggy or Dobey, both of whom were his good friends and had been for years, could make Hutch uncomfortable if they got too close, too chummy. Not that Dobey was a hugging man, but Huggy, well, Hutch thought there was one very clear reason the skinny black man had earned his nickname..... Huggy Bear liked to hug on occasion. Hell, on many occasions. Thankfully, only rarely was Hutch on the receiving end.

 

But not Starsk, no his partner wasn't included in the list that included the rest of the world's men. Starsky could sit right smack down on his lap and wrap himself up in Hutch, and the blond felt only affection, love. Starsky had full hugging privileges. That pretty much never extended to sleeping in the same bed. Though this was the first time Hutch remembered naked sleeping. A very naked Starsky was wound all around him, his scratchy nest of pubic curls plastered to Hutch's hip, the soft press of other things, of unaroused genitals, there as well. And Hutch after figuring out who it was, a very important bit of information, was perfectly fine with it.

 

Odd, because whatever he was, Ken Hutchinson was not an easy toucher, that was his partner's field. And naked touching was a bit different, even for them. Sure women in trouble, or lovers, all were women in his experience, Hutch hugged and held, but not friends, not men. Not without clothes for double sure.

 

He could count on one hand the number of times he'd had a real hug from his father. Usually it was a pat on the shoulder or the back, or maybe if he did very well, indeed, a one armed hug of his shoulders, quickly done. Then back to the wealthy, dignified, Minnesota reserve.

 

So Hutch, relaxing into the cocoon of the bed blinked himself awake to figure this out, to figure out if there was something else he should remember.

 

And gradually the evening before came back to Hutch.

 

"I'm never gonna have sex again." Starsky had announced, seriously and with utter conviction. A Starsky trademark that level of certainty. He swirled his half empty beer as they sat on the couch, only peripherally interested in the baseball game on the TV. Routs that were 15-2 in the bottom of the seventh were hardly ever interesting. "Never. No sex ever."

 

"Starsk...." Hutch started to say, completely caught by surprise, dropping all effort at staying engaged in the 3-0 count the current batter was facing. The batter looked as bored as Hutch was. What Starsk was saying was more interesting by far. And disturbing.

 

Sure his partner was avoiding women, was uncomfortable around them. That was so obvious Hutch would have had to be blind and far more oblivious than he was not to have noticed it. His gregarious partner, normally cheerfully flirtatious with all woman under ninety, suddenly had a new habit of keeping Hutch between him and any woman who approached them. Minnie, Helen, Carol, even Cathy. He made it clear without saying a word that he didn't want to be touched. Except, Hutch admitted, by Hutch.

 

Now that it was around the precinct like wildfire that Detective Sargent David Michael Starsky was one of the Rapist's victims, more of the female officers than ever came out of the woodwork to offer sympathy, or express concern. Starsky after all was well liked, admired. And there was nothing like an injured bird to bring out the mothering in any woman.

 

Starsky had no trouble talking to them, laughing, thanking them for their concern, but he shied away if they tried to hug him, touch him, kiss him. A month ago, he'd never have done that. He would have been soaking up all the attention, like the time he broke his ankle falling, Starsky insisted it was falling, Hutch called it "jumping" off a roof while trying to catch a suspect. But now, it was "hands-off-ladies" as far as his partner went.

 

Hutch was distressed to know how much his best friend was suffering. Starsky not wanting to get close to women was a Starsky Hutch was not familiar with. He could only thank god that Starsky had not suffered the same metamorphosis with him. If Starsky stopped touching him, or letting Hutch touch him....that would be more than Hutch could stand. As it was, Hutch had gingerly tried to bring it up in the shrink's office, and Starsky had stared Hutch down, then stared the psychiatrist down when he tried to continue the line of thought.

 

As it was, the conversation that Starsky had started with him last night was troubling enough. But, Hutch reasoned, at least he was talking about it. That was good wasn't it?

 

"I'm not gonna have sex....." Hutch couldn't believe the firm tone of decision in his partner's voice. It wasn't teasing, it wasn't doubtful. It was sure. Positive. Hutch believed him. Starsky wasn't going to let anyone close to him that way again. And that hurt Hutch to think about. His arms tightened, and the man in his arms murmured a drowsy protest at the restriction around his chest, his lungs. Hutch forced himself to ease off.

 

He lay his cheek against the wild curls. Starsky needed a hair cut, he looked like a ruffled sheepdog, hair falling into his eyes...Hutch burrowed his nose in deeper into all that silky mass. Until he felt his lips make contact with a warm, slightly sweaty temple. It was automatic to kiss. And Hutch did, his mouth soft against the tiny pulse of the artery there.

 

Starsky sighed happily, still asleep. His toes and fingers flexed, Hutch felt one against the instep of his foot, the other against the small of his back. Good. It was good to be here, like this. He settled, thought more about what had happened last night.

 

The second six pack of beer made it's appearance shortly after the declaration, a second half dozen bottles shared between the two of them, bottles already rolling empty on the coffee table in front of them as Hutch gently tried to talk Starsky out of his decision.

 

Starsky's mind was made up. He dug his heels in and refused to be budged on his declaration of celibacy.

 

Hutch didn't remember any more beyond the vague recall that after he'd given up on changing Starsy's mind, they'd made it to the bed instead of dropping off in the living room. Which was good for his back, sleeping on the couch sitting up was for younger men.

 

He remembered Starsky undressing, flinging everything all over the floor, in a very un-Starsky like manner. And falling face down in the middle of the bed. Hutch had rearranged the out flung limbs so he had a few inches of bed to lay on himself. Starsky had immediately turned and latched onto him like an eel, less than a minute later, they were both snoring.


End file.
